


Here comes your man

by sirona



Series: Cliche Bingo [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demon Fighting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blood, Blood Magic, Clint and Natasha kick ass and take names, Demons, Destiny, Family, Family Loss, Father-Daughter Relationship, First Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Natasha is so sensible thank god she exists, Original Character Death(s), Parent Death, Phil is the best dad, Pining, Prophecy, Soulmates, badassery, cosmic thumbs-up, libraries are the best, off-screen death of a spouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the gorgeous guy who seems to camp out at the library where Phil Coulson works asks him out, Phil isn't expecting much. Little does he know that the strange connection he feels to Clint Barton will affect the rest of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and acknowledgements in the end notes, because they got a bit long. :) This is a supernatural demon-hunting AU. Just saying. Written for the _soulmates_ square on my Cliche Bingo card.
> 
> Title by That Song by The Pixies. There will be warnings included in the headers to each chapter; please proceed with your own self-care in mind.
> 
>  
> 
> In this chapter, boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy saves boy, and boy loses boy, all in the space of a few days.

He's there again when Phil comes in on Wednesday, looks settled in already, like he's been at it a while. Which he might have done, since it's ticking over to four o'clock -- Phil's classes run later on a Wednesday, so his shift at the city library's been pushed back to allow for it. He's just lucky that the head librarian knows his mom, or he wouldn't have gotten the job at all.

There are books on the table in front of the guy, piled high enough to obscure most of his face -- but not his eyes, never his eyes. They dart up when Phil passes him, like they have done for the past week or so, piercing blue pinning him in place more effectively than any words. The guy doesn't spare him more than a second before looking back down at--looks like Physics today. The guy's reading habits are more eclectic than normal for someone his age -- he looks about as old as Phil, maybe a year younger, Phil's not sure. He can't really tell very well, because staring is rude, and also he's not being paid to do that. 

The guy is quiet and keeps to himself, and that's all that should concern Phil, not the dirty blond of his hair, or those broad shoulders stretching his light-blue t-shirt in all kinds of interesting ways. Phil puts his head down and gets going with the shelving that's been left for him, four carts full of books that had been returned earlier in the day. His job takes him all over the library, not just the second floor where the guy is camped down on the same table every day. Phil enjoys it -- it's a routine, he loves working with books, and no one minds if he stops to read a couple of pages here and there, because he's a fast worker and he does his job well -- there are never any books left for the next day, he works through closing time to make sure of it. 

He's aware that the guy's eyes track him as he works, but he doesn't quite know what to make of it. He's not especially striking in appearance -- a bit on the skinny side, clothes well-worn and comfortable, nothing to merit much attention being thrown his way -- and he's mostly okay with that. Still, the fact remains that he feels an itch between his shoulders whenever he's in the guy's line of sight (he assumes, it's not like he checks to make sure of it or whatever, because that would be ridiculous). 

The time passes in silence, like all of his shifts do. Phil likes it. It's soothing, the only silence he gets these days in between school and his baby sister at home, who is loud enough for three kids rolled together. It doesn't bother him -- he can study just fine with noise in the background, always has, really, considering she was born just as he was starting middle school. And since his mom is almost never at home, working two jobs to keep them clothed and fed and with a roof over their heads, it falls to Phil to take care of her in between Calculus and English essays and Physics labs. He's lucky his brain works as well as it does to keep on top of all that as well as the college applications that have been piled on this year. 

When Phil makes his final walk-through, checking all the floors for stray books left on reading tables, the guy is gone. The books he was studying are stacked neatly by subject, which is a kind thought, and confirms Phil's theory of the guy paying attention to him for whatever reason. With no one around, Phil is free to check through the titles without fear of getting caught out.

Huh. Most of the books are on energy exchange, environmental physics. Phil glances at the title on one of them: _Snow and Climate: Physical Processes, Surface Energy Exchange and Modeling._ He shrugs. Maybe it's college research -- god knows Phil's been doing enough of that himself when writing his admission essays. So the guy's interested in climate studies. That's... pretty cool, Phil admits to himself, lets his mouth curve in a small grin. Hot, and an environmentalist? Yeah, that's, uh. Phil clears his throat, shakes his head. It's not like he stands a chance with someone who looks like that. For all Phil knows, he's some kind of jock asshole who's going to deck him for so much as thinking about asking him out.

He picks up the books, ready to put them away, when he notices the second half of the stack. Mythology? World creation myths. Oh, man. He swallows fitfully, because if there's one thing that turns him on more than anything, it's flexibility of thinking. The guy's clearly much smarter than he looks, and thinking outside the box if he's cross-checking climate theory against oral tradition, knowledge from ages long gone transmitted through myths to reach the present, in whatever garbled form. 

This is doing nothing for the stupid crush Phil has been nursing, except blowing it out of all proportion. He picks up the books and turns, biting at his lip and berating himself silently. He can't quite check the instinctive jump back when that brings him face to face with the object of said crush, stealing closer on utterly silent feet. Phil feels his face flaming, no doubt the ugly red it always turns when he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have, no matter how rarely it happens. He opens his mouth, but he has no idea what he meant to say, because his mind is as blank as the look on the guy's face. They stare at each other for a long, tense moment, Phil bracing himself for whatever's going to get thrown at him, the guy completely still, eyes hard, assessing. Then something shifts in his face, and Phil can breathe again. 

"I forgot my notebook," the guy says, pointing to a battered example of the same lying innocuously to the side of where he'd been sitting. Phil hadn't even noticed it. What he does notice is that the guy's voice is a little husky, whether from disuse or if that's its default setting Phil doesn't know. Either way, it's doing very uncomfortable things to his pants. 

"Uh, sure. Sorry," he blurts, although he has no idea what he's apologising for. The guy doesn't take his eyes off him, edges around him like Phil is holding a bomb. Burning with embarrassment and humiliation -- the guy obviously thinks he's some kind of freak -- Phil ducks his head, clutching the books to his chest like they're his last defence against appearing like a complete idiot. He steps aside, doesn't look up when the guy’s muscled arm snakes past him and reappropriates his notebook, then waits for the guy to leave so he can die of mortification in peace. God, see, _this_ is why he shouldn't let himself get to this stage. There's a reason he always shuts down his attraction to people when it rears its ugly head -- because he is _useless_ at normal human interaction.

The guy doesn't leave. When Phil lifts his head to look at him, he's standing there with his head tilted to the side a little, like he's assessing him. Phil's face heats again, not like it ever stopped -- god, why is he like this?

"You work here, right?" the guy asks him, still in that husky voice, accent soft but impossible to pin down. 

"Yes," Phil says, thankfully without stuttering. Up close, the guy's eyes are the light, serene blue of a tropical ocean. The intent look in them makes Phil's throat dry out. 

"Can you help me find a book? I've been looking, and the computer catalogue says this place has a copy, but I haven't been able to find it."

Oh. Oh, okay, this Phil can do. He straightens, stops clutching at the books quite so desperately. "Could be that I've just shelved it, there were more returns today than usual. Do you know the title and the author?"

The guy's mouth quirks a little in one corner. Phil swallows. 

"I'll do you one better," the guy says, looking him straight in the eye before flipping his notebook open. "I've got the reference number."

Once Phil hears it, he knows exactly the book the guy is talking about. "Yes, I've just shelved it, but it's on the floor above. Do you want me to go get it for you?"

The guy shrugs. "Nah, I'll come with you. Got nothing better to do right now."

Phil nods and leads the way towards the door, weaving through the bookshelves on the way to put away the books he's been holding. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guy's eyebrow rising when Phil manages to neatly dispose of all of them by the time they're at the door. Phil straightens some more, lets some of his usual confidence trickle back. Yeah, he's damn good at his job, thanks.

They lope up the stairs together, the guy just behind him, which makes Phil a little self-conscious of the worn jeans he's got on -- he knows the cuffs are scruffed where his shoes kept catching them. Now that he's shot up another couple of inches, they're growing a touch short, too. All in all, he's pleased when he gains the next floor up and he can stop obsessing over it -- not like it would make any kind of difference to this guy. 

The book is right where Phil left it, of course. It's in the history section this time, Ancient History, too. Phil tries to hide how impressed he is, isn't sure he succeeds. The guy takes it from him eagerly; his forefinger brushes against Phil's. Phil carefully doesn't allow himself to react at all.

"Cool, thanks--Phil, is it?" the guy says, making a show of peering at the badge that hangs from Phil's neck, which is how Phil knows that for whatever reason, this guy already knows his name. No one makes that much of an obvious effort -- they just ask him for it.

"Yeah, Phil Coulson," he says anyway, debates for a second whether to offer his hand to shake, does it anyway.

The guy takes it without hesitation, grip warm and tight. Phil shoves his instinctive reaction down, especially when the guy says, "Clint Barton," with a smile that makes Phil grit his teeth against letting out a damning groan. 

Clint holds his hand a touch longer than necessary; Phil wonders whether it's his overactive imagination that makes him think Clint's assessing his strength, because he's really not that important. Still, the feel of those strong fingers gripping his is enough to make his breath stutter in his throat and his cock twitch in his pants. He lets Clint's hand go in a hurry after that, because this? Not wise _at all_.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" he says, taking a smart step back, helpless to stop his blush from flaring up again. Clint's eyes travel over his face, making things so much worse. 

"No, you've been very helpful already," Clint drawls, a hint of amusement weaving through his voice. 

A strange thing happens to Phil then. Instead of curling up into a ball of embarrassment and whimpering helplessly, something inside him snaps. Okay, so he apparently wouldn't mind screwing this guy's brains out. Doesn't mean he's going to let Barton use it against him. It's not like he's ever going to act on it, anyway.

"Good. In that case, you'd better hurry up if you want to check that out of the library, because it's past closing time already," he says evenly, calmly. It's a strange feeling, almost like a rush, regaining control of a situation that seemed so far beyond it.

Clint's eyebrows rise, but he nods and steps back. Phil thinks he sees reluctant respect on Clint's face before he turns and walks away.

Then, of course, he has to go and completely ruin it by shooting Phil a look over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow," he says, winking, before he's out of the door and Phil can hear him trotting down the steps. Phil sags against the bookshelf at his back, taking deep breaths and willing his cock to settle down from the half-mast that wink has him at. It's beyond ridiculous; he knows nothing about Clint Barton -- besides his name, the fact that he's got a brain that makes him harder just thinking about it, the firm squeeze of his hand on Phil's... 

Okay, so this isn't actually helping any. Phil forces himself to take deep breaths, recites the library classification to himself until he's got his body more or less under control enough to go say goodbye to Mrs Hadley and head on home. 

And if he has more trouble falling asleep that night than usual, he resolutely ignores the reason behind it.

\---

For the next few days, Phil avoids the second floor like the plague. If he's forced to go up there, he keeps his eyes straight ahead and does not allow himself to seek out a certain table, ignores the flash of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. He's got to nip this in the bud, or it's only going to cause him grief in the end when he inevitably gets rejected at best, in trouble at worst (even though Clint doesn't look the type that will get violent about it. Still, better safe than sorry). 

He's working a full day on Saturday, when he's allowed to help out at the checkout desk, and gets sent on errands for customers looking for certain books. It's a busy day for the library, and he revels in it -- he loves being useful, loves having lots to do even more, and he's barely had time to catch his breath before it's lunchtime and Laura sends him off to grab something to eat and take half an hour to clear his head. There's a small park near the library, teeming with moms taking their kids out for a walk to enjoy the late fall sunshine. Phil buys himself a sandwich, a can of Coke, ventures down the pathways in the hopes of finding a free bench. There isn't one, but the grass is dry enough that he can sit under the shade of a tree and read for a little while before it's time to head back. 

He's just inhaled half his sandwich and opened his book when a shadow falls over him, disrupting the light that filters through the leaves overhead. He looks up, and somehow manages to swallow the sip of coke in his mouth without choking.

"Hi," Clint says, holding a thick textbook to his chest, the sleeves of his sweatshirt half-obscuring his hands. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Phil wants to say no--well. That's not true. Phil wants to tug him down by his belt and press his mouth against the edge of his unshaven jaw, nose over his cheek, breathe against his mouth until it opens for him.

"Sure," he croaks, has to clear his throat while his goddamned traitor of a face flames again. 

Clint smiles and folds to the ground with a grace that leaves Phil breathless. He tucks his feet under his knees, drops his book in his lap -- it's the same Ancient History textbook Phil had helped him find on Wednesday. Awkward silence settles between them while Phil tries and fails to get back to his book. He shoots Clint a look from under his lashes, only to drop his eyes again when he finds Clint watching him curiously.

"You're a senior, right?" Clint asks after a moment, and Phil lifts his head to find himself studied by his too-blue eyes. 

"Yeah, at Franklin High. What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not a student," Clint says dismissively, waving a hand. "Family moves too often. I'm home-schooled."

"Oh," Phil echoes, dropping his eyes to the book. "Looks like you're ahead of most of us," he ventures.

Clint follows his gaze, shrugs with a self-deprecating grin. "Yeah, my Ma's worse than any school teacher."

They fall silent again; Phil uses the time to debate with himself whether it's wise to engage Clint in a proper conversation, or if it's just going to make things worse. After a brief but vicious battle, his curiosity wins out.

"So you like environmental studies?" he asks, biting at his lip when Clint looks up in surprise. "I shelved your books, remember?"

Clint grins. The change in his face is remarkable; Phil has to catch his breath when his heart starts pounding in response. 

"So you did," Clint drawls, sending him such an appreciative look that Phil feels the brief urge to run away -- because he might do something really stupid if he stays. "And yes. I do."

It takes Phil far longer than it should to remember what they were talking about. "Are you thinking of studying it in college?" he asks, recovering nicely, he thinks.

Clint's face, for a fraction of a second, looks haunted, despairing. It's gone so fast that Phil is sure he must have imagined it. "I'd like to," Clint says with a smile that, while it doesn't look forced at all, somehow makes him look smaller than a moment ago, younger, too. For the first time Phil wonders just how old he really is.

Before he gets a chance to ask, Clint reaches forward and plucks the book from his lax fingers. "Oh, _American Gods_. I've been meaning to read that for ages. What do you make of it?"

Phil lets him get away with it, falls into an easy conversation, the two of them arguing the merits of Pratchett vs. Gaiman, and when he looks at his watch next he sees he's about to be late. Clint senses the change in him immediately, face falling a little. 

"I'm sorry," Phil says, surprised to find he means it. "I have to go back to work. Are you... coming in today?" he asks hesitantly, unsure of what he's hoping for more.

"Not today," Clint says, looking away. "I should be getting back myself, I have work at home."

Phil nods, resigned to the rest of his day being rather duller than the start of it. Just as he's gathering his things and making to rise, though, he's stopped by Clint's hand on his knee. It sends shivers up his spine; he looks up, startled. 

Clint looks uncertain, but determined. Phil waits to hear what he has to say. "Are you working tomorrow?" is what Clint goes with, and when Phil shakes his head 'no', he bites at his lip before blurting, "D'you want to go someplace?"

Phil processes this for a moment, during which Clint actually fidgets -- which is when it dawns on Phil that he is being asked out, in the most awkward way possible. This doesn't do a thing to influence his answer either way.

"Sure. I'd like that."

Clint grins at him; it's excited, boyish. Kind of adorable. They make arrangements to meet back here tomorrow morning, and then Phil sprints off because by that point he is seriously running late.

It doesn't dawn on him until much later that 'adorable' isn't really an adjective he should be attaching to a guy he's been trying to avoid getting too involved with -- but by that time he can't remember why that is a bad thing at all.

\---

Phil manages to dodge his mom and Lucy just after lunch, while they have their weekly Sunday grooming time, doing their hair, painting their toenails, having mom-daughter bonding time. He grabs his bag, stuffs his book inside it just in case, and double-times it out of the house, shouting that he'll be late.

"Not too late," his mom calls out of the window, while Lucy waves at him. He waves back, salutes his mom, and straddles his bike to the call of "Have fun!" He pedals off as fast as he'll go, and gets to the park with half an hour to spare; he's really not expecting to spot Clint's blond head immediately. Clint is sitting at one end of a picnic table, head buried in his book again. Every now and again, his head will lift, and he'll scan the area quickly before looking at his watch and down again. Phil feels a curious warmth bloom in his chest, melting away a good portion of his nerves.

He approaches, not trying to be quiet, but kind of hoping to surprise Clint all the same. He makes it within six feet of Clint's back before Clint tenses and turns. The way his whole face lights up makes Phil grin back at him helplessly.

"Hi," Clint breathes, delighted and just a touch shy.

"Hi," Phil says back. He lets his bike drop to the ground and throws a leg over the bench, sitting down facing Clint. He tries to ignore the way Clint's eyes skim his legs, follow his movements hungrily. He swallows dryly, looks back when Clint's eyes find his. Clint's eyes burn with something fierce, something Phil can't even pretend to understand, but can't deny that he _wants_.

"So," Clint drawls, looking down, then back up, like he can't help himself. "I was thinking maybe... do you want to go for a walk? And then the movies? If you like going to the movies, I mean--"

"I'd love to," Phil cuts in hurriedly, wanting to reassure. "I love the movies. What were you thinking of watching?"

"Um, _The Matrix_? I heard it was good."

Phil grins. "I've only wanted to see that for a month. That would be brilliant. And maybe after, we could get a burger or something?"

"It's a plan."

It's the greatest day of Phil's life. Clint walks next to him easily, ridiculously cut arm brushing his. Once in a while, Phil would say something funny (glory be!), and Clint would turn to look at him, blue, blue eyes crinkling in a smile, laughing along. He sits very close to Phil in the theatre, stealing his popcorn even though he's got a box of his own that Phil bought for him, fingers brushing Phil's between the kernels. There's a tingle running up and down Phil's spine every time they touch; he can hardly believe that someone as hot and smart as Clint Barton wants to spend time with _him_.

The movie is fantastic, but Phil barely registers most of it, concentrating on the warmth of Clint's body next to his, on not whimpering when Clint shifts and his thigh slides along Phil's. When the movie is over and they walk out, he can't take his eyes off Clint, who is so excited by what they just saw, so fascinated by the subjects explored. Once again, it's immediately obvious that he's incredibly smart, and impressively well-read in a variety of areas. Phil tries and fails to not sink even deeper under his spell, especially when Clint starts expounding on the allegory of the dream world and perception, what makes a thing real. The conversation doesn't lag even once; it carries them through most of a burger and fries at the local diner Phil likes to go to when he can. Phil watches Clint animatedly wave a fry he stole from Phil's plate, and he wants to kiss him so much it hurts, so much he has to squeeze his hands over his knees under the table so Clint doesn't see how they itch to tug him closer. Phil has never felt like this before; he's almost eighteen, and he knows that's not all that old, but no one has ever affected him like this, like he wants to take their hand and never let go, like he'd follow them _anywhere_ , if they only asked. There's something intangible shimmering in the air between them, something about the way Clint talks like he's looking right inside Phil and lifting things out from his very _soul_ , like all it would take is one look, one word, and Clint would _know_ him, get him like no one else in the world. Like they're just a touch away from forging something... _perfect_. It's exhilarating, and scary, and it makes Phil feel so _alive_.

Phil walks Clint to his bus stop, and insists on waiting with him. Clint looks sad, drooping a little for the first time today. Phil barely dares to imagine it's because Clint doesn't want their date to be over, either. The bus stop is on a long, straight road in the city center; in the falling dusk it's mostly deserted, too late for the families, too early for the nightlife to get going. They see the bus rounding the corner a long way off; Phil doesn't know how Clint is sure it's the one he needs from that far away -- but he doesn't have time to ponder the mysteries of Clint's eyesight, because there's the sudden shock of lips on his, fierce and tentative at once, begging for a response. Phil kisses back, fists his hand in Clint's t-shirt, like it would keep him close. A moment later, the touch is gone, and Phil forces his fingers to unclench when Clint steps back, eyes dark. The bus is almost upon them; Clint throws out his arm, and it slows. Phil is hoping for a last look, something to show him how Clint feels about what just happened, but he's still surprised when Clint does turn, just as the bus comes to a stop, and smiles with a question in his eyes.

"See you tomorrow?" he says, climbing sideways up the steps.

"Yeah," Phil says as the doors swoosh close. Clint walks down the bus as it pulls away, keeping place with Phil as long as he can. "Yeah," Phil says again, smiling, and Clint beams at him through the back window as the bus takes him away.

Phil can feel the stupid grin on his face all the way home.

\---

It's seriously hard to keep a straight face when Phil sees Clint sitting in his usual spot at the library the next day. He doesn't even think about complaining, though; there's a connection between them, a buzz that Phil feels beneath his skin, that he wouldn't give up for the world. Clint lifts his head, as if he felt the tug, too. He smiles when he sees Phil, which widens into a full-out beam when Phil can't help but smile back like a besotted teenager (which, okay, he kind of is. Shut up.) They don't speak, but there's a weight between his shoulderblades that Phil is aware of on and off throughout his shift. He doesn't let himself linger on the second floor, though, no matter how much he wants to. The day drags like never before; four hours feel like forty by the time Phil is done and ready to head home. He's hoping he knows why Clint stayed behind, and he heads over to the second floor again when he's done shelving the last book, a flutter of anticipation quickening his blood. 

Clint is there, but he isn't alone. There's a girl about their age sitting opposite him at the table, an absolutely stunning girl at that, ringlets of long red hair flowing down over the shoulders of her black leather jacket. She is looking at Clint intently, a frown on her full mouth. Clint looks mulish and angry, fairly glaring at her. There's something in the slump of his shoulders that hits Phil in the gut, something he had first seen the other day, at the park: something haunted. Phil's hackles rise; he doesn't understand the urge to put himself between the girl and Clint, to tuck Clint behind his back, away from her. It doesn't make it any less strong. 

Clint looks up, and his face tightens even more. Phil is aware of his own face falling, the eager anticipation of moments ago turning to ashes.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Clint says shortly. Phil nods, because what else can he do? The redheaded girl looks at him with a penetrating stare -- like she's evaluating him, which is probably ridiculous. She's sitting with her foot casually resting on the edge of Clint's chair, right between his legs, and Phil can't help the hot churn of jealousy in his gut. 

"Everything okay?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

He isn't disappointed. Clint just shrugs, which Phil interprets as 'no, but I'm not going to tell you about it', which is fair enough. They haven't really known each other long, and he knows he isn't entitled to an explanation. Clint pushes to his feet. He looks unhappy. Phil wishes more than anything that he could just walk up to him, tilt his chin up and kiss that expression off his face; but then the girl slips her hand through the crook of Clint's arm, and Phil bites back whatever he'd intended to say.

"I really am sorry," Clint whispers when he walks past him. His eyes cling to Phil's for the briefest moment, and then Clint is past him, and Phil doesn't turn to watch him go. There's a cold, laden feeling in his stomach. He tells himself to stop being ridiculous -- they've been on _one date_ together. He has no right to expect Clint to suddenly act like they're 'together', no matter how much Phil wishes he would. Phil should stop being so melodramatic and head home already. He has homework to do, and Lucy is probably ready for dinner, anyway.

He tries and fails not to think about Clint _all the damn time_ , in the days after. His lips tingle when he thinks of their one kiss, and he zones out in the middle of class sometimes. This has got to stop, he tells himself, yet the thoughts creep up on him the second he loses focus on pushing them away. He's so distracted that it's getting to the point where he's sure someone (Clint) is nearby, only when he turns to look, of course there's no one there. Clint stops coming to the library, too. Phil refuses to pander to the spike of unhappiness his absence sends through him; he just wishes that buzz in his head would go away; that he'd stop looking for Clint around every corner. He's sure that's not normal, and he's sure as hell not going to mention it to anyone, no matter how many looks he's been getting. He's obsessing, and that's not right.

Phil is so determined on Not Thinking About Clint as he heads home from school one evening about a week after the non-altercation, on thinking of _anything_ else -- what he's going to make for dinner, the Physics lab he has to work on, whether or not his mom will be too exhausted to talk to about colleges tonight -- that he only becomes aware of the silence when he's halfway down the side street he uses as shortcut to get home faster. It's between two busy roads, and the sound of traffic is usually heavy at this time of day -- it's only just past seven p.m. But there's a hush around him now that's just wrong; something about it has got the hairs on Phil's arms rising, sends a skitter of tingles down his spine, like a tiny spider tap-dancing away. Phil stops pedaling, bringing his bike to a slow stop. He looks around, but there's nothing, not the slightest movement to excuse the sudden waves of apprehension he's drowning in. He's not wearing brand-names, and his bike isn't new, or expensive, or worth the hassle of stealing. He's pretty sure he isn't about to get mugged -- yet there's _something_ off.

And then it rises through the street: a huge, nebulous gray cloud that gives off the stench of sulfur, and starts to solidify into a vaguely humanoid shape. Immediately Phil feels terror claw up his throat, some instinct telling him to get as far away from this thing as he can. He looks back. The mouth of the street is a long way off, and he has no idea whether he'll be able to make it before this thing is on him.

He swallows past the pounding of his heart in his chest, focuses on making his shaking hand work, plunges it inside the front pocket of his backpack, and pulls out the canister of mace he always carries on him. He folds his hand around it, keeping it back as a last resort. The thing doesn't seem to have noticed him just yet, but it will soon -- there's no one else on the street but them. Phil starts cautiously inching around it, back pressed against the wall to take advantage of every inch of space between them.

He's almost, _almost_ around it when it swivels in place and pins him to the spot with a pair of yellow cat-like eyes. Its approximation of a nose twitches, and it _grins_ at him with a mouth full of serrated edges. It's the most terrifying thing Phil has ever seen.

He doesn't waste time thinking it can't be real, because whether or not he thinks it ought to be, it's _right there_ \-- and it's taking a step closer, and another, and another. Phil jumps back on his bike and hightails it out of there. He can hear a raspy, rhythmical sound behind him; the thing is still moving slowly, but somehow it's gaining, and it's _laughing_ as it goes. Phil's insides try to crawl out of his throat in the haste to get away from it. How did he never realise how fucking _long_ this damn street was--

\--And then there's a whoosh of sound right past his ear, and when he stops and turns to look, there's an arrow sticking out of the thing's right shoulder, a fucking _arrow_ , feathers and everything. The thing looks down, and lets out an angry bellow.

"Get moving, you moron," somebody yells. The voice is _very_ familiar. Phil looks up, and sees Clint crouching on a third-floor balcony off a fire escape, bow strung in his hands. As Phil watches, Clint lets another arrow fly, this time sticking the thing through its stomach. The resulting roar makes the fillings in Phil's teeth vibrate. 

"Fuck," Clint swears, and swings down, quick and nimble like he does this every day -- which, who's to say he doesn't? "Phil, come on, quick, before it--"

An arrow clatters at their feet, sticky gray goop congealing over the pointy end. Phil and Clint look up slowly. The thing is less than ten feet from them; Phil can see the way its pupils dilate, as if sensing victory. 

He doesn't think. He distantly hears Clint swearing some more, at him to move, at the thing to just die, but it seems inconsequential. He brings up his arm, pulls his wrist up, and sprays the thing with a face-full of mace.

The roar this time is more of a screech, and the thing stops at last, clawing at its _melting face_. Phil spots a hint of yellowing bone before Clint slides sideways onto the central bar of the bike and yells at him to go. Phil obeys this time, legs pumping as fast as he can make them, taking them away from whatever that thing was. 

Phil considers the possibility that he might be in shock, that he might have just hallucinated the whole thing, when he looks up and he's sitting across from his school again with no idea how he got there. Clint is still with him, though, letting go of his grip on the handlebar and sliding off the frame, turning to look at Phil with concerned eyes. Phil stares straight ahead helplessly, without the first clue about what to say, what to think.

"Phil," Clint says urgently. "Phil, look at me. You're okay. We're okay. You killed it," he adds, and the note of pride in his voice manages to snap Phil out of it at last.

"What the fucking hell was that?" he asks, probably a little louder than he means to, going by the way Clint flinches. 

"It was a _δαίμονας_ ," Clint says quietly, sounding resigned.

"A... demonas?" Phil hazards, trying to repeat the strange word, without a hope of replicating the accent.

"Close enough," Clint says, smiling humorlessly. 

"What's a demonas?"

Clint looks shifty. "I'm not really supposed--you're not supposed to know about them," he hedges, avoiding Phil's eyes.

"Clint. I just saw something that I have _no_ way of explaining. I'm going to have nightmares for months as it is, and my boyf--uh, _you_ just shot it full of arrows, which did nothing to slow it down, I might add; and then it _melted_ when sprayed with oleoresin capsicum. I think you could make a good argument that I saw plenty enough to know that whatever-it-is exists. Now, suppose you tell me what the fuck it _was_?"

Clint still looks like he's doing something he shouldn't, but he does start talking, and that's all Phil wants.

" _Δαίμονες_ is what they're called in Greece, where they originate. That's the plural. The singular you already know: _δαίμονας_. They are a species of demon, they tend to control atmospheric pressure, and apparently they are susceptible to pepper spray, which, thank you for helping us find that out. Each species has its own weakness, and often they just wave off things that would make their cousins expire on the spot."

Phil thinks about this. He's got so many questions, he doesn't even know where to start. "Why did it come after me?" his mouth says for him. 

Clint shrugs. "Wrong place at the wrong time? They very rarely have a reason to go after the people they do."

"What would have happened if it had caught me?"

It could be just his imagination, but Clint shudders, hard. "It would have sucked your essence out of every single cell of your body. That's the reason they're nebulous -- they surround your body with theirs, and they drink up every drop."

Phil thinks that the shudder is entirely justified. 

Clint's phone thrills just then, and he digs it out with a muttered curse. It's only then that Phil's brain replays Clint's words for him: 'helping _us_ '. How many of them were there? Is that why Clint said they moved a lot? How is someone as young as Clint involved in something that sounds so ancient?

Yeah, Phil's got a few questions alright.

"Natasha," Clint snaps into his phone, and then keeps quiet, pressing his lips together. "Yeah," he says after a long moment. "Yeah, yeah; no. There's been a development. Yeah. I know. I _know_ , okay. Just tell her I'm bringing him in."

He disconnects the call without saying goodbye, tucks his phone back in his jeans pocket. "You'll have to come with me," he says, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry about that, but rules are rules."

Phil knows what he should do is refuse, tell Clint 'no way', tell him he has to go home, that he's got responsibilities. What comes out instead is, "Who's Natasha?" 

He shouldn't ask, much less ask in that tone of voice. This isn't something he should be concerned with. Knowing that doesn't make it any better that he _is_ \-- and how.

Clint looks away again, eyes darting down. He looks guilty. Phil's stomach drops in a way no monster can cause. 

"She's... a friend," Clint says, after a pause that cements the impression. Whoever she is, she's _way_ more than a friend, apparently. Phil wonders if that makes him 'the other woman', and feels sick.

They make the journey in silence to the outskirts of the city. It's still light, the school year is not that far gone, but it's getting cold earlier, and Phil finds himself huddling into his sweatshirt and wishing he'd thought to wear his coat. Clint looks perfectly comfortable, but then he has a jeans jacket over his hoodie, probably because he'd stowed his bow away under it, so he's using it as cover. Clint doesn't speak to him, but he keeps throwing him these glances, and his mouth is tight, and there are lines around his eyes that look out of place on someone so young. Phil finds himself thinking that whatever this is, it seems to be taking its toll on Clint.

On the edge of the city is a field, overgrown with tall grasses that have yellowed under the summer sun. It's probably only a matter of time before the City cuts them down, but for now they make a good place to put something you don't want found, and that's where they come upon a circle of trailers that look older than both of them combined. There is rust here and there on the paintwork, the chrome fixings. They are a drab gray color that seems determined to send a message: 'keep away'.

There is also a small circle of people gathered in the middle of the larger one, using the trailers as shelter from the strengthening wind. All the people look tough, determined -- like warriors. Phil spares a moment to wonder whether he's about to be made to disappear, before his focus is taken by the tall woman standing in the center, hair the black of a raven's wing, eyes the same piercing blue as Clint's. Phil swallows fitfully. They don't look much alike, but there's a certain kind of _feel_ to them. He knows without being told that this is Clint's mother. He steps closer to Clint, feels their arms brushing, and it's not like Clint could (or would) do anything against his own people, but somehow it makes Phil feel better.

"Report," the woman barks. Her voice is a firm alto, used to command. Clint seems to snap to attention; he suddenly looks taller, and the illusion of youth fades away like it has never been. He looks like a soldier reporting to his commanding officer.

"I've been tracking the hostile across the city. It wouldn't settle, it jumped from place to place. Then suddenly it shot off like it had a purpose, and it resurfaced on a side street about thirty feet from this civilian. I shot it, but the arrows didn't seem to make an impression. The civilian had a canister of mace, which he deployed into the hostile's face. It made the essence melt away from it, made it solidify as its body disintegrated. I believe it was the oleoresin capsicum in the mix, it seems to bind to the molecules of the hostile's body and break them up -- and it doesn't leave behind a cloud of gas, so it's harmless to the deployer. It bears researching further, as it appears to make for a very effective weapon against them."

The woman listens with a fierce kind of attention, as do the other people. Phil spies the red-headed girl from a few days ago standing next to a short but dangerous-looking older man with the same wiry build and high cheekbones. Probably her father, then. Phil wonders if these are all families. He doesn't see any other children, younger or older, and he has a sudden inkling that he already knows what her name is.

"Is this the civilian you mentioned?" the leader asks, tilting her chin at Phil. For the first time, Clint looks uncertain.

"Yes," he says, almost like he would rather be saying 'no'.

The woman's face closes down, and her eyes snap with anger. "Would this civilian happen to be the reason you disappeared a few nights ago, when I specifically ordered you not to go anywhere without your--without Natasha?"

Phil blinks. He'd assumed--but actually no, he'd never thought to wonder whether or not Clint's parents knew where he was. He'd been too focused on other things, on Clint being so close to him, on the way Clint's presence had made him feel. The mention of Natasha in connection with their date is like rubbing salt into a cut -- it stings just the same.

Clint straightens his back and nods curtly.

The woman draws herself up, and if Phil thought she was imposing before, now she looks like some kind of warrior queen, furious and formidable.

"You are never to see this boy again," she declares, quiet words that nevertheless carry through the air. Phil's stomach drops, and dread curdles inside him. He turns to look at Clint, who looks abjectly miserable. 

"Ma'am," he starts, but it's weak, the protest of a child. 

"I have said my peace, and you will take that as an order, Clinton. You know what's at stake here. You took the oath. You made your choice."

For the first time, even Phil's fear can't stop him from speaking. "What choice?" he asks, can't keep the words from falling from his mouth, even though he is probably making things worse -- but this is it, Clint is being taken from him, and even though Phil _knows_ he hasn't any rights in this, knows he barely knows this boy, a lot less than he'd thought he did, at that, there's a sense of urgency inside him that won't let him stay silent. It wants him to _fight_ for Clint.

The woman looks enraged, but Clint turns his back on her, looks at Phil.

"She's right. I did make my choice, and I chose to do this, to be part of the order."

Phil looks up over Clint's shoulder, eyes locked to the woman's.

"She's your mother, isn't she?"

Clint nods.

"And you don't think that your mother being the leader of the order influenced you to sign up for it? Did you even know what was involved when you did?" He's angry, he's _so angry_ , and he doesn't know what it is that made him snap: that Clint would throw his life away so easily, or the pain of knowing that Clint obviously doesn't feel the same things that Phil feels for him -- the fierce kind-of-affection, the strange, inexplicable desperation to be by his side -- if he can walk away just like that.

Clint just looks at him, and his face is drawn, haunted again. "Maybe I didn't," he admits quietly. "But I still took the oath. No one forced me to, no one sugar-coated it for me. It was _my_ choice, Phil. It still is." 

Phil never knew you could feel your heart breaking. He always thought it was a stupid expression, something made up for the books and movies, but he feels it now, his heart cracking clean in two in his chest. He feels like he's losing something precious, something _important_ , and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Clint looks anguished, but he's standing his ground, even if his hands are squeezed into fists so tight his knuckles are white. He's so close Phil can smell the lingering scent of him, something fresh and faintly salty. Behind Clint, his mother stands with her arms crossed over her chest, a forbidding expression on her face. 

Phil wants to beg. He has never begged in his life, but he wants to now, wants to drop to his knees and cling to Clint's mid-section and beg to be allowed to go with them, anything. But he can see the decision in Clint's eyes, and he can see how useless any words would be, begging or not -- he doesn't have the power to change Clint's mind about this. It's like Phil had always known -- he just isn't important, certainly not enough to matter to Clint, no matter what Phil might have imagined there was growing between them. 

And even if he was, he can almost sense his own mother and Lucy, like they're right there behind him, keeping him in place. He can't do that to them, and even if it feels like his insides are being torn apart, like he's leaving a part of himself behind when he turns and walks away, it's not something he can help. He has no choice in the matter. No choice at all. Clint has left him no other option. Better to cut this burgeoning connection now, while it's still fresh enough that the loss won't kill him.

"Goodbye, Clint," he says quietly over his shoulder, because there's nothing more that he can say that would make the slightest difference; because Clint is sending him away, and if Phil turns and looks at Clint now, it might just break him.

He hears a soft "Goodbye," from behind him, but it could just be the wind, or the sound of his blood rushing in his ears as he tries to keep the tears from falling.

He doesn't remember biking home. He doesn't remember much of anything, not the wind on his face as he travels the streets, not that it apparently rained heavily enough that he's soaked through when he dismounts outside his house. It's almost full dark now, and the lights in the house are on; he can see Lucy at the kitchen table, bent over her homework. It's a small slice of normality that lifts his heavy heart a little bit, enough that he can walk inside and not have to go and hide in his room until he can make his face look like it isn't going to crack if he smiles. 

He takes a deep breath before he unlocks the front door all the same, and tells himself he's imagining the eyes on his back, eyes that have followed him home, the only thing he can remember from the ride back. It's done. It's over. Clint made that perfectly clear.

There's nothing for Phil to do but accept it and move on.


	2. Interlude: Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Clint and Natasha go though hell but come out swinging on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains the violent loss of a parent and other parental figures**. Please, please proceed with your self-care in mind.

The air is thick with mist turned to fog, and Clint doesn't know what's up and what's down anymore. He can hear the pained screams of people around him, but he's blind -- even he can't see through air this clogged. He fights his way forward, hands stretched out to find-- _anyone_ \--but there's nothing, he feels like he's slogging through empty space, doomed to never reach the edge. He stumbles, looks down to see that he has stepped on an outstretched, lifeless arm. he crouches, waves his hand to disperse the vapour, and stares into the empty eyes of Sasha Romanov, Natasha's father. Fuck. Oh, _fuck_ , if he's down, then the others don't stand a chance. Sasha was the best fighter amongst them; he was the one who taught Clint and Natasha everything they know. Yeah, so Clint lost his own father years and years ago, but twelve or twenty-two, they will never be old enough to lose a parent without it ripping them apart, and since Natasha's mother is also gone--

He tells himself to stop it, that he'll have plenty of time to deal with the fall-out once he has made sure he and Natasha make it through this alive. So he apologises silently to the dead man and straightens, strains his eyes to see through the fog. Damn _δαίμονες_! He closes his eyes, stretches out his senses, looks for the familiar swoop in his gut whenever he stumbles on an area of localised low pressure, a sure sign that there's a creature in the vicinity. Sure enough, a moment later he feels his stomach drop out, and he yells, "Drop!" as loud as he can, loosening a modified gas canister arrow after the briefest of seconds, aiming for the middle of it. The fog lifts just a little bit, enough for Clint to see Natasha plastered to the ground, black sweatshirt torn over her arms, blood seeping through the wound. Her eyes are tightly squeezed. Clint shuts his eyes too, swoops in, finds her elbow and grabs it, guiding her away from the remains of the gas that has put paid to at least one _δαίμονας_. 

"Seen any of the others?" he asks immediately, once it's safe to speak.

Natasha looks at him, with an expression that sends ice through Clint's veins.

"Your mother," she starts, and he knows that whatever follows, it won't be good.

"Is she dead?" he grits out, teeth clenching.

"Not yet," is all Natasha says, and yeah, Clint knows how these battles go. This one is worse, way worse than any he has been in so far, and he is fast losing hope that anyone else has made it through but the two of them.

"Where?"

Natasha points, and the two of them start stumbling through the freezing fog. Clint uses three more arrows before it's light enough to see through, and then Natasha joins in, unsheathing her custom-made knives with gas in the handles, something Mama Fuente made for them -- Mama Fuente, whom Clint had found not long ago, dried to a husk, only recognisable by the gold-and-ruby rings she always wore. Not even the niftiest pair of hands can help you when there's too many _δαίμονες_ converging on you.

The fog thins to mist, and with one last hit that lifts, too. The two of them are left staring at the carnage around them, their whole family gone, just like that. Only the trailers are left standing, pots of food now long gone cold over dead fires. It isn't even fully dark yet; it's the blue hour, when the fog had made things all the more confusing. At least they'd wiped out the entire nest, too.

Natasha jogs off towards the back of the circle, where a figure lies crumpled on the ground. Clint can smell the blood from ten feet away; there's so much of it that when he sinks to his knees on the ground, it soaks through his jeans, intensifies the numbing cold he feels. He takes the woman's hand in his, notices distractedly how heavy it is, how lifeless already.

"Clint," the figure whispers, and he leans closer instinctively. 

"I'm here, Ma."

The hand in his twitches, like the fingers are trying to close around his, but are too weak to manage it.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice ravaged. Clint squeezes his lips together, swallowing around the sting of tears.

"For what?"

A pause, during which Clint holds his breath to hear the shallow rattling of hers fading. "For everything," she says, and coughs wetly. "I was so wrong, _so wrong_. It wasn't Natasha. It was never Natasha. If I hadn't been so blind--" Coughing wracks her again, and Clint holds on to her hand, and doesn't try to stop the wet tracks down his cheeks.

"It's okay, Ma," he says, because what else can he say?

His mother shakes her head weakly. "No, it isn't. I've kept something from you, something wonderful. Your real soulmate. You have no idea, Clint, no idea what it feels like, for your other half to slot into place. I thought it was Natasha. I really did," she says, entreating. Clint can only nod, brush her damp hair back from her face. "The two of you fit together so well, and you always seemed to know where the other was, what they were thinking. But I looked for the connection tonight, tried to find you through it, and it wasn't there. _It wasn't there._ "

Clint looks helplessly up at Natasha, kneeling on the other side of his mother, across from him. She holds his eyes, shares his grief like she always had -- like he will share hers, in a little while, when she finds out.

"I'm sorry," Clint says to his mother, but she shakes her head again. 

"It's not your fault. You can't help it. I wish--" she stops, sucks in another wet breath. "I have wronged you greatly, my son."

"What? No," Clint says immediately, but she speaks over him, determined to get it out.

"I have. I should have listened when you brought that boy with you. But I was so _sure_ \--" She trails off, trying to get her breath back. Clint can't do a thing except cling to her hand and listen to her last words and try not to break down. 

"It doesn't matter now," she goes on after a long, fraught moment. "Only he matters. There was something between you that night, something I was too determined to ignore. I was afraid it would take you away from Natasha, and the two of you hadn't grown into your bond yet--well, because Sasha and I were alive, I thought. But it was me who couldn't see. Find him, Clint. Find out if he really is the one. And if he is, then use it. Use it like I taught you; you remember?"

"I remember," Clint tells her. "I'll find him," he promises, and, "I love you," but her eyes are empty already, and her hand is lighter now, lighter than it has any right to be. She's gone.

It's Natasha who pulls him away, Natasha who replaces his mother's hand with hers, and tugs him to his feet. 

"We have to go," she says, and she's right; they have to go before someone stumbles upon this place. They aren't that far away from the nearby town, and the police have taken to circling the lot a few times every night, making sure the interlopers stick to their little camp. It's almost dark; the patrols won't be far off, especially if some local reported the weird noise coming from the fog. They have to strip the place clean and leave before they're caught.

They divide the trailers between them, invade what used to be homes but are now just empty husks, removing weapons, salvaging books, filling canvas sacks with supplies and rations. Their own homes are the worst, because there is just so _much_ to go through: clothes, knick-knacks, books on the lore, diaries of the ones gone before them.

Then they move on to the bodies.

Natasha only whimpers once, small and broken, when she finds her father. At least he died in battle, wasn't sucked dry like so many of the others before Clint had dispatched the rest of the _δαίμονες_. Clint stands beside her, and takes her hand, and doesn't let go when her nails break his skin and he feels blood trickle down his fingers. It mixes with Natasha's, but there isn't even the slightest tingle that would prove a soul bond between them. Looks like his mother was right about this one last thing, too, like so many times before. Clint can't even think about this right now; he doesn't think his mind can take it.

So he concentrates on stripping the bodies of anything incriminating, takes Mama Fuente's rings, his mother's favourite fire opal pendant, Papa Edward's prized gun. He meets Natasha on the edge of the clearing, by the ancient Jeep that never seems to break down. They stash everything they have managed to recover inside, and then they make their way to the last trailer, Grandma Stein's place. They are silent when they open the storage compartment, and they remove the heavy tubes of gasoline with no more than a sharp exhale at the weight. 

And then they do what every single member of their family, their group, swore to do when they took the oath: they make sure that the secret is kept.

Clint slides in the driver's seat of the Jeep, eyes stinging from the smoke and a few other things besides. In the passenger seat, Natasha is pale and drawn, usually rosy lips drained of colour. Clint starts the engine and pulls away, watching in the rearview mirror as the fire grows behind them until it's a conflagration that consumes everything that was left of their home. It's a good thing the year is edging towards winter, and the ground and surrounding fields are wet with the rain that fell earlier in the day, or the fire would have spread faster than it could be contained. As it is, all it will take is what it's meant to.

They are miles away, driving down the least deteriorated road, when Clint finds his throat loose enough to speak.

"Where to now?" he asks.

Natasha turns back from where she was staring out of the window. Her eyes are red but dry -- this isn't the time or the place for the breakdown Clint knows they will have to eventually weather together.

"Milwaukee. Maybe he'll still be there."

Clint grits his teeth again. "That was six years ago, Nat. He was a senior back then; he'll be long gone."

"Maybe he moved back after college. Or maybe there's a trace. Clint, we promised."

Clint sighs, hard, and nods. He did promise. The least he can do is track down Phil Coulson and see if he is the one Clint needs. His soulmate. Clint shies away from the word; it's so foreign, and it brings with it too many bad memories. 

His father and his mother had been soulmates; everyone had believed that they were the ones destined to send the _δαίμονες_ back to whatever hell they came from. But it never happened. Everyone kept reading the prophesy over and over again: _"On the cusp of the third millenium two orphans shall meet. Fire stones shall join, and their souls shall know each other. The union of their lives shall vanquish the insatiable mist."_ His mother and father had both been orphans, and they had met by chance one night when his mother had gone for a pint of milk to the convenience store where his father worked as a clerk. They had known as soon as they had seen each other, and ten months later Clint had been born. His mother and father fit every requirement (except for the stones, and everyone thought that was an allegory anyway). They had fought together for years, and their bond had helped, but on nowhere near the scale that the books foretold. Little by little, it became clear that they weren't the ones; that those destined to defeat the _δαίμονες_ had yet to come. And just as slowly, especially after his father's death, his mother had become obsessed with the idea that Clint was the one destined to bring an end to the demon menace that savaged the world. 

The chance of finding his soulmate shouldn't make him feel so despondent. Okay, so he hasn't the faintest idea how that's supposed to feel -- which is why he was so ready to believe that Natasha was the one for him. He doesn't love her _like that_ , though he has loved her from the start, that has never changed. But the idea that he's supposed to tie his life to someone else, someone human and fragile -- it terrifies him. He remembers what happened to his mother after his father's death, how she changed, how all the softness bled out of her right along with his father's blood leaving his body. It's so much; it's too much trust to put in the hands of just one person. 

(He tries not to think about the fact that if that one person is Phil Coulson, Clint might try to learn to live with it, for the chance to have it. His mother may have been onto something -- it's been six years, and Clint still finds himself thinking wistfully of that boy, the few stolen days so long ago.)

Either way, he gave his mother his promise, and he'll keep it, come what may.

Silent, the Jeep eats up the miles, taking them north.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, boy finds boy again, only to discover that said boy's life has moved on in an unexpected direction. Happily, boy is amenable to reconciliation. His daughter helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions the off-screen death of a spouse. Please proceed with your self-care in mind.

The ocean breeze ruffles Phil's hair as he locks up his office and heads for the parking lot. Spring is turning into summer, and the air is light, fragrant with the scent of flowers and suntan lotion. Naples is finally waking up after the long winter, the coolest spring on record. 

This is Phil's third spring in the city. Business is thriving, and Ripley is settling in sweetly. After Idris's death, Phil had feared that nowhere would feel like home for them anymore. He is glad that time has proven him wrong. It had taken a while, they changed two towns before they found this place, but from the moment the car had pulled up outside the sunshine-yellow house that would be their home in this city, it had felt natural, like the place had been waiting for them to turn up. It loosens the knot around Phil's heart a little, knowing that at least he can give his daughter this. 

They don't live far from the shop; in fact, Phil should start leaving the car at home more often now that the weather has turned, stretch his legs a bit. The only reason he still takes the thing is.... well. Them.

The canister of pepper spray seems to be permanently glued to his hand these days. He deploys it mercilessly, every single time, as though by taking out yet another _δαίμονας_ he could avenge Idris's death. He will never forgive himself for not being there to stop it, not for as long as he lives.

The vermin have been getting more persistent over the years. Luckily, Ripley seems somewhat immune -- they have never come after her. Just him. Phil wonders what the hell makes him so damn important, even as he sprays the thing that had been stalking him into oblivion. He is no one. No one important, at least, but ever since that fall twelve years ago, it's like he can't get a fucking break, no matter how fast he runs, how many times he moves. They just won't let him go. He has taken out so many _δαίμονες_ since then that he has lost count. It's almost routine now: the swoop in his gut, hand digging into the special pocket in his briefcase, or car, or satchel; point, spray, walk away. At least they only came after him in ones and twos, and they weren't all that bright.

The streets are busy as he drives past. He's starving, and he's wondering what to make for dinner -- they had spaghetti the other night, so that's out, and it's Thursday, so pizza is out, too. He really should do some cooking over the weekend, it would do them good to have some home-made meals for a change. For tonight, he dips into the fish market, picks up some shrimp, some garlic for the butter, freshly-baked bread from the one place that opens late. They won't starve, at least.

"I'm home," he calls out as he unlocks the front door and shoves it open with his shoulder. 

"I'm in the kitchen, Dad," Ripley calls, and Phil makes a beeline for it, depositing the bags by the sink and getting the drainer out straight away. 

"Hi, sweetheart," he says, detouring by the table to drop a kiss on Ripley's strawberry-red head. "How was school?"

Ripley leans into the kiss, and then shrugs. "Fine. I have some math problems to do tonight, and I have a book to read for English class."

"Oh yeah? Do you want to read it together? What is it?"

" _The Inventions of Hugo Cabret_. It looks really interesting!"

"I'm sure it is. After dinner, then?"

"Sure. Oh, hey, Aunt Lucy called. I'm meant to tell you to call her back one of these days."

Phil pushes back the always-present big brother fear, and forces himself to smile. Their mother might be gone now, but Lucy is all grown up, too, same as him. She can take care of herself.

"How did she sound? Okay?"

Ripley looks up, purses her lips in consideration. Her blue eyes are about the only thing she inherited from him -- all the better for her, probably. 

"She sounded tired," she confides.

Phil's smile dims into something smaller. "She's probably buried in research, you know her thesis is--"

"Really hard, yeah, I know," Ripley agrees sympathetically. Aunt and niece couldn't get on better if they tried.

Phil puts dinner together quickly, and Ripley puts away her books and helps set the table. They talk while they eat, getting themselves up-to-date with each other's day. Phil tells her about his self-defence class, how nervous he is to be teaching for the first time, and she tells him about the new girl at school, someone who moved here from Alaska and is apparently an instant hit. It's pleasant, and soothing, and a reminder of why he does everything that he does to keep the two of them together. So completely worth it.

After Ripley goes to bed, he calls Lucy up. 

"Yeah?" she answers. She sounds crabby, and Phil almost apologises, but she always says she appreciates the distraction.

"Hey, Luce. How're you?"

"Hey, bro," she says happily, tone immediately changing. "I'm okay. Justin is driving me up the damn wall, but other than that, fine."

Phil grins wryly. "Hey, you picked him. I thought things were going well?"

She sighs. "They are. Ignore me, oh my god, I sound like some wretched old woman. Things are good, really."

"Well, good," Phil says, relieved. "I'd hate to have to come up there and beat him up for you."

Lucy scoffs. "Do you even know how much ridicule you're opening yourself up for right now? Ugh, _men_."

"Hey," Phil reprimands mildly. "It's not like I don't know you can't take care of yourself, but it's in the big brother contract to intimidate your dates when they don't behave, you know that. So did you want to talk about something specific, or...?"

"Well, I did want to just hear your voice, but I also wanted to check in with you -- it'll be two years next month. Are we doing anything special?"

Phil doesn't need to ask her what she's talking about. "I hired a service to tend the grave site, and I'm going to send a wreath, but other than that -- I shouldn't imagine so. I certainly can't make the drive, and Ripley's got school, anyway. I don't suppose you can, either. You know Mom wouldn't have wanted us to spread ourselves thin like that. But--do you want to come down for dinner? Can you get the time off?"

Lucy hums thoughtfully. "I don't know, Phil. I'd _love_ to, but--let me check my schedule, see if I can't work something out, and I'll call you back?"

"You do that."

They chat a little longer, but then Lucy yawns hugely, and Phil winds it down, says goodnight. Friday tomorrow at last. All he wants to do this weekend is sleep. Maybe Marie can be persuaded to take Lucy for the day on Saturday so she can have a playdate with Marta, and maybe a sleepover, too? The girls would love that. Something to check on tomorrow. He makes a mental note, and goes through his nightly routine, brushes his teeth, changes into a pair of loose sleeping pants and a soft tee stretched all out of shape. No one to see him in it, anyway; there hasn't been anyone since Idris, and at this stage, Phil is honestly starting to wonder if there ever will be again. 

He climbs into bed, stretches out under the sheets, and doesn't have to stare at the ceiling for long before his eyes fall shut and he's out like a light.

\---

The shop is busy on Friday. You wouldn't think it to look at, but Naples is way too close to Key West and Miami for its citizens not to be concerned about safety. It's on the water, too, and you never know what might climb out of the sea. So Phil's shop selling home and personal security items is doing quite well for itself. After all those years of running and being chased, even if by supernatural beings, Phil is quite the expert in what works and what doesn't. He tends to steer clear of guns, but tasers, pepper spray, those are things that he has about twenty varieties of each. Now that summer is here, the self-defence class is popular again, too. Jada offered him the position of instructor last year, but Phil had wanted to spend a bit longer watching her teach before he joined in. His is the gadgets slant: how to use them, what works best. He wishes it weren't necessary at all, but -- again. Not all the evil in the world is confined to the supernatural.

It occurs to him, when he calls Marie about the playdate, that there is another avenue they might do well in -- Marie asks if there are any classes that girls Marta's age can take part in. When Ripley started school, he spent a few weekends teaching her some moves, just enough to get her to safety and call an adult. She's a fast learner, and it made both of them feel better about her going to school alone. Phil thinks he might broach the subject to Jada when he sees her next, because yes, this is something that they probably ought to think about. Keeping their kids safe is a parent's biggest priority.

He tells Marie he'll ask, and arranges for the girls to spend the weekend at Marie and Lettie's house. He promises to take them for a weekend next month, to give her and Lettie a chance to spend a bit of time by themselves.

"That would be amazing," Marie laughs, and thanks him. They agree that he'll drive Ripley up on Saturday morning, and pick her up on Sunday night. And since Gabrielle is more than capable of looking after the shop on her own over the weekend, Phil finds himself with some rare time off. He debates calling Jack, and maybe asking to get in on their poker night on Saturday, but he's just so damn _tired_ , and he thinks he might fall asleep in his beer. Better to take the chance to sleep when he has it. 

Ripley is predictably overjoyed by the arrangements. She runs off to call Marta immediately, while Phil fixes dinner: Fisherman's pie, which takes a little longer to prepare, but he got the recipe off Antonio, who got it off his mother back in Italy, so he knows it's going to be _delicious_ when it's done.

"Dad, _Dad_ , Marta asks if we can go to the movies of Saturday? Can we, please? _Please?_ " 

Phil snorts to himself. "Sure," he calls over his shoulder. He'd better take Marie and Lettie a bottle of wine for doing this.

He smiles at Ripley's squeal of joy, and resolutely ignores excited babble about _Mission: Impossible -- Ghost Protocol_. They're too young for that shit, damn it. (Thank god.) They'll probably go see _Kung Fu Panda 2_ , which Phil is very much in support of. 

Which reminds him -- he's going to need to give her some cash for the stay, and he can't remember if he's got any in the house. There's an ATM a few blocks over, by the 7-11; he'll just need to run out once they've had dinner and Ripley goes to bed. Shouldn't take him long, but still -- he puts the pie in the oven and washes his hands, then opens the back door and steps out on the porch. Night is falling by now, and it's almost the blue hour that Phil used to love so much before his life got tangled up in _demons_ of all things. The lights are on in most of the houses that he can see, and so are next door's. He opens the gate in the fence between the two houses, and knocks on the Delawares' back door.

June answers it, wheat-coloured hair twisted up in a bun on top of her head, round face dimpling in a smile when she sees him.

"Hi, Phil! What can we do for you on this fine evening? Do you want to come in?"

"Hey, June. No, thanks, I left Ripley in the house on her own. Is Tom around?"

"Oh, sure. He's just making salad. Hey, Tom! Come out here a minute, sweetheart!"

A moment later Tom ambles over, a short man in his late forties with a few pounds too many around his waistline -- hence the salad, Phil assumes. 

"Hiya, mate," he says easily, Australian accent still strong even after all the years he's spent on this side of the pond. "What can I do you for?"

"Sorry to barge in like this, but I just realised I had to run to the 7-11 after dinner. I don't want to leave Ripley on her own without someone to keep an eye out. Do you think you could..." Phil waves a hand at the house. "I shouldn't be long, but I'd feel so much better knowing you'd watch out for anything unusual."

Tom and June smile at him. They've been the sweetest ever since they found out about Idris, always telling him he need only ask if he needs anything. 

"Absolutely," Tom says. "Do you want us to come over, or--"

"No, no, don't go out of your way. Just keep an eye on the house. I'm going to lock up tight, so just listen for anyone sniffing around?"

They assure him it's no trouble, that they spend a few hours in the front room after dinner anyway, so it's easy enough to watch out for his house as well as theirs.

"Thanks," Phil smiles, just as Ripley's "Dad?" can be heard through the open back door. "I'd better go. Maybe we could have dinner next week?"

"We'd love that," June tells him. "Say hello to Ripley for us!"

"I will," Phil calls, already most of the way back through the gate. He lopes up the path and sees Ripley standing at the door, sniffing the air beseechingly. 

"How much longer till dinner?" she asks him, throwing the oven covetous looks. 

Phil checks his watch, but it'll still be a while before the pie is baked. "How about a salad and some garlic bread while we wait?"

Ripley nods eagerly, and then insists on helping him put it together. 

"Did you go to Uncle Tom and Aunt June's house?" she asks halfway through, and Phil tells her about his plan to run to the shop for half an hour. 

"I asked them to keep an eye on the house, so you don't have to worry. And if something seems suspicious, you call them right away, okay?"

Ripley nods seriously. Probably every other kid her age would roll their eyes and insist that they'll be fine -- but Ripley isn't like other kids. She knows what's out there. Phil had had to tell her, if only so she wouldn't freeze and put herself in danger, and she'd know how to deal with it. 

"Okay," she promises, and he hugs her to his side, kissing her hair.

"That's my girl."

By the time the salad and garlic bread are done, they only have to wait a little longer for the pie, so they sit at the table and talk about the girls' plans for the next couple of days, and Ripley wheedles at him until he agrees that yes, they can have pancakes for breakfast tomorrow. He'd better go to the shop after all, while he's down there. 

The pie is delicious, and they devour big helpings each. The benefit of home-cooked food is that it's hearty, and it makes you warm and sleepy -- so Ripley heads upstairs a little while after they are done, and when Phil has finished the washing up and looks in on her, she is fast asleep on top of the covers in her room. He throws a quilt over her and leaves her to it -- she's wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, home clothes, so she shouldn't be too uncomfortable, and it's more important that she sleeps now so she can be well rested for tomorrow. He leaves her bedroom door open a crack, grabs his car keys and locks up the house six ways to Sunday. Better safe than sorry, especially while Ripley is inside. He curses himself for being so forgetful -- he could have easily gotten some cash on his way home from work, but he'd been too focused on getting home and starting dinner. Still. It shouldn't take long.

He goes to the ATM first, takes out some money and tucks it away in the back of his wallet. Then he hits up the store, gets some blueberries, maple syrup because they're running low, some milk and vanilla for the pancake batter. He's got flour and eggs at home, so that's the pancakes set. He also (guiltily) picks up some chips and a packet of donuts, but if home alone on a Saturday night isn't the time to indulge, he doesn't know when is.

It's full dark when he crosses the parking lot to his car, the sky a deep inky black dotted by the brightness of stars, but no moon. Phil's got all his senses on high alert, just in case. Everything is quiet and still, and he's just starting to relax, when all of a sudden he actually sways with how fast the air pressure drops. _Fuck_. He lets go of the bags and plunges both hands in his pockets, palms the pepper spray. He looks around, but there's nothing, nothing at all; the parking lot is empty apart from his car, which he'd consider odd for a Friday night but he doesn't have time to think. Mist surrounds him, slowly, insidiously, coming out of nowhere, and all he can do is keep his eyes peeled for the center mass. There is always a thicker swirl of vapour in the middle, he has learned that much. 

He takes one of them out, praying that no one comes out to investigate the noise, because he can't defend another person as well as himself with this many of them on the prowl -- there is more than the one, that much is immediately apparent. He turns, puts the car at his back, keeps his eyes open. He feels a burning brand closing on his ankle, and looks down to find a tendril of mist reaching up from under the car. Stupid, _stupid_. He jumps away, waits for them to show themselves again. Fuck, there's two? Three of them? Three he can handle, _just_ , so he starts turning in a slow circle, keeps moving. 

Then another trail of mist, and another. Phil's stomach drops, and he feels sick. Five of them? Has he stumbled onto a nest or something?

He can't handle five, not by himself.

He smells the pungent reek of sulfur behind his back, and turns sharply, just in time to drop one of them. But the smell is all around him now, and his heart starts pounding fast. _Shit_.

"Drop," someone yells from nearby, and Phil obeys instinctively -- that's the kind of command the voice carries. He hits the asphalt, and hears a whoosh of air overhead, the hiss of gas as whatever it is slams one of the _δαίμονες_ right in the face. The thing screeches, and the fog lightens immediately. 

Phil doesn't have time to thank his rescuer; he's got three more of those things to take care of. As with anything, though, two people get the work done in half the time. The mist disappears entirely, and Phil pushes slowly to his knees from where he had thrown himself to the ground again on the stranger's orders. He braces himself on the asphalt and tries to get his feet under him, but they're shaking, and so are his arms. That was _way_ too close. Without the stranger there, he would have been toast.

A hand appears in his line of sight, unwavering, patiently waiting for him to take it. Phil does, and another strong hand braces his arm when he straightens. He looks up.

Oftentimes in the passing years, Phil had wondered if Clint's eyes could have really been as blue as he remembered, or if his mind was embellishing the details for him, torturing him with something he couldn't have, and shouldn't want anymore besides. But no; his brain apparently had perfect recall where Clint was concerned, because yeah. They are still as blue as Phil remembers, if a little less bright, a little darker with the things he must have seen.

"Oh my god," Phil's mouth blurts, apparently on automatic control. Clint's eyes are wide, like he hadn't expected this, either -- which might well have been true, who knows. 

"Coulson," he says, sounding shocked.

'You used to call me Phil,' Phil thinks wistfully, then shakes himself. 

"Barton. Fancy meeting you here." Phil doesn't know what he's saying. This is easily the most surreal moment in his life, and that's saying something. 

Clint shakes his head, seemingly on auto-pilot himself. "I'll be damned," he mutters to himself. 

Phil shivers, and realises that Clint's hands are still on him, holding tight. Clint seems to realise it at the same time, because he lets go of him like he's been scalded. Perversely, it only makes Phil shiver harder. Clint looks at him in concern, before jogging a few feet away towards where Phil had dropped his shopping bags, stopping here and there to pick up used arrow shafts. He snags the bags and jogs back to the car.

"You got somewhere we can go? We should get out of the open."

 _Ripley._ Phil's brain jump-starts at last, and he pins Clint with a hard glare. "What is going on? Am I in danger? Is this town in danger? How many of them are there? Can they track us?"

Clint makes an 'easy' move with his free hand, but Phil just glares at him some more. Clint's mouth curls in a soft, if worn-out smile. Phil doesn't want to focus on what that smile is doing to him. He'll have time for that later, when he's alone, and not faced with the one person he-- _No_ , Phil. Not now. Focus.

"Well?" he demands, when Clint hesitates.

"We've been tracking nests around the country. Heard there was an unusual concentration of fog in this part of Florida, so we came to check it out. I'm assuming you have noticed a few of them around, based on how you moved and how unsurprised you were to see them."

Phil nods, turning to stuff the shopping bags that he takes back off Clint in the trunk of his car. "Yeah, there have been a few. Nothing I couldn't handle -- until tonight. Are there more coming in or something?"

Clint shrugs. "Hard to tell. We took out a good number, so the nest will be weak right now anyway. It'll take time for them to regroup. And to answer your questions: yes, you are in danger, but no more than usual; yes, there is something weird going on in this town, which is why we're here now; I have no idea if they can track us, but if you have been seeing more of them than usual then we have to assume they can, at least to some extent. As for how many--well, the jury's still out. Certainly fewer than there were before we took out this lot. Now, do you have some place we can go, or don't you?"

Rationally, Phil knows he shouldn't trust him. And Ripley? Putting her in danger is _not_ an option. But just like all those years ago, there is something about Clint that draws him in, something that whispers at him to trust Clint. Phil is a rational man who values logic and common sense above all. He had thought that all those feelings he'd had as a seventeen-year-old with his first real crush had been just that -- a kid finding someone who made his blood stir for the first time. He'd thought he had imagined the pull, the instinctive desire to hold onto Clint, to keep him close, to let him in.

Turns out, these feelings? Not so much confined to his seventeen-year-old self. Still, he looks at Clint, really _looks_ at him, refuses to be blinded by emotions he doesn't understand. Clint has certainly grown into himself; he's a little taller than Phil now, though not by much, and he's still broader than him in the shoulders, the chest. He is also dressed well (if you consider leather to be a good fashion choice, and not to put it too mildly, Phil _really_ does). He doesn't look like he's been sleeping rough, is the important thing -- he's got it together. He looks tired, sure, and there's a weariness to him that hadn't been there when they'd first met, but he's still a person that Phil can trust -- that Phil wants to trust, he might as well admit it, at least to himself.

"Yeah, I got a place," he says at last. He tilts his head at the car, and Clint does something complicated with the bow slung over his shoulder that makes it fold to about a third of the size it was, and climbs into the passenger seat of Phil's Acura. 

They make the drive in silence that is only broken by Clint digging out his phone and talking quietly into it. Phil tries not to listen, choosing to concentrate on driving instead. 

"I'll be in contact again soon," he makes out, before Clint ends the call and makes his phone disappear somewhere underneath all that leather. Phil isn't thinking about that. At all.

He turns the car into his driveway, closes the door quietly and waves at Tom when the curtains of their neighbours' house twitch and his face appears in the window.

"Thanks," he calls softly, and Tom waves good night. Phil pretends he hasn't seen his curious glance at Clint, standing on the other side of the car, obviously waiting for Phil. He can tackle that kettle of fish in the morning. 

He opens the front door just as silently, steps back to let Clint in, and re-locks it, securing the modified chain across the back for good measure. He ignores Clint's raised eyebrows.

"Living room and kitchen are through there. I'll be right back."

He climbs quickly up the stairs and pokes his head into Ripley's room. She hasn't even moved to turn around in bed. Satisfied, he closes the door this time, so their talking doesn't disturb her -- and talking there will be. 

When he gets back downstairs, he finds Clint poking around the leftover pie, looking half-starved and trying to be polite at the same time. Phil hands him a plate and tells him to knock himself out. Clint looks heartbreakingly grateful, and quickly takes advantage. Phil lets him eat in peace; it's the least he can do. He sits across the table from Clint, and sips at a cup of black tea, just one more remnant of Idris that will never go away. Clint goes back for seconds, and looks like he's debating thirds before reluctantly pushing his plate away.

"That was fantastic, man," he says, patting at his very flat stomach. "I can't remember the last time I had a cooked meal this good."

"Thanks," Phil says. He puts his mug down and clears his throat. Clint gives him a look, but straightens as well.

"Any chance of a coffee before we do this?" he bargains.

Phil looks at his watch. "It's gone eleven. You sure?"

Clint waves a hand. "Yeah. I don't really sleep much anyway."

Phil wants to frown at that, and has to remind himself that he has no right to lecture Clint on anything. He makes the coffee, and places it in front of Clint once Clint has waived milk and sugar. Clint curls his hands around it, just like Phil remembers him doing that one time they went out.

"So," Phil starts, and Clint smirks, lifts his eyebrows. Phil shrugs. "You said 'we'. Your family here with you?"

A cloud passes over Clint's face, taking away with it all signs of levity. Now he just looks exhausted, like the world's on his shoulders.

"They're gone," he answers shortly. Phil starts to apologise, but Clint talks right over him. "It's just me and Natasha now."

Natasha's name cuts right through the jumble of thoughts in Phil's head. Funny how just her name still manages to get his hackles raised, even though he has absolutely _no_ reason for that kind of reaction. 

"Was it--" he tries, getting back to the topic at hand. He can't quite make himself say it, though.

Clint nods tightly. "Yeah. A nest of them. Biggest we'd ever seen, dozens of them. No one else made it."

"I really am sorry for your loss," Phil murmurs around the lump in his throat. 

Clint shrugs. "We all knew what the stakes were," he says.

That doesn't make it any easier, but Phil swallows back the words. They're unnecessary, and Clint clearly doesn't want to talk about it.

"So what are your suspicions about the nest here?" he asks instead.

Clint's eyes clear a little, like talking of his work is preferable to talking about his family -- easier, at least. Hell, it probably is, for him. "No idea. Not that big, I don't think, but we've only just got here. It'll take a few days to investigate, rustle up some leads."

"Wait, Natasha's _here_?" Phil says, catching up with the memo. Clint gives him a 'duh' look. And yeah, okay, so the woman may have inadvertently been the reason Clint had been taken away from him before, but she has lost as much as Clint, and it would just be plain rude not to ask. Phil still has his manners. "Does she want to come over, too? I mean, she's welcome to," he finishes awkwardly, looking away.

When he dares to look back, Clint is smiling a little. "I think she's okay for the night. But thanks. It's nice of you to ask."

"So you got a place to stay?" He just wants to clarify that. He'd kind of assumed that maybe Clint would be staying... here... and he has no idea why the hell his mind did that.

Clint shrugs again. He seems to be doing a lot of that. "We found a motel on the outskirts of town. I could--it wouldn't be hard to get to from here, I should call a cab, let you get on--"

Phil, for reasons he can't quite explain to himself, puts a hand on one of Clint's arms crossed over the table. Clint trails off, for the first time looking uncertain.

"I didn't mean to imply that you should go. You're welcome to stay here. There's a perfectly good sofa bed in the living room that I can make up for you. It'll be no trouble," he says, waving off Clint's half-hearted protests.

Clint looks down, and it takes Phil a moment to realise that he's staring at Phil's hand on his arm. Phil lifts it immediately, feeling his face burn. Fuck, it's like all the years in between have suddenly disappeared; it's like he's still the awkward guy with a crush on the gorgeous stranger. 

At least Clint's ears are a little red, too. Phil resists the urge to rub his palm against his thigh -- it misses the warmth of Clint's arm, which, seriously, he is being ridiculous.

"Thanks," Clint says softly. "That would be great."

Phil has to remind himself that Clint is really only his age. He wonders when the last time was that Clint spent a night off the road, in a proper house. Too long, by the looks of it. Phil makes a determined note to invite Natasha over, too. Clint shouldn't have to spend time away from his girlfriend just because Phil might nurse a tiny amount of residual jealousy towards her. He's an adult, and it was a long time ago. He needs to get over it.

Phil can't help the glance he throws up the stairs when they pass them on their way to the living room. All is quiet and still, so Ripley hasn't woken up. He opens the small cupboard under the staircase, takes out a sheet and a pillowcase for the sofa.

Clint is watching him consideringly when he turns and heads towards the living room.

"You got someone tucked away upstairs?" Clint says, only half-joking. Phil watches him for a moment before turning to the sofa and busying himself with making it. 

"My daughter," he says after a long moment. He pushes back the seriously out-of-the-blue wish to introduce Clint to her. "Her name is Ripley. She's nine."

"And your wife?" Clint's voice is careful; it sounds like he's casing the exits.

Phil smiles wryly to himself. It still hurts, it will never not hurt, but it's getting easier to talk about it as time passes.

"She's gone, too."

"Oh," Clint says softly. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Phil replies. _It was mine._ "It was a _δαίμονας_. It got her on her way back from dinner with friends. About five years ago, now."

"How do you know--" Clint starts, but Phil sends him an angry look.

"Please, Clint, I know what a _δαίμονας_ victim looks like."

Clint looks startled. He shuts up, at least, so Phil subsides. "They had to identify her by her dental records, but I knew it was her, as soon as I saw this." He hesitates a moment before reaching inside his shirt and tugging out the small sun-shaped fire opal pendant that he has taken to wearing since. It sits comfortably over his chest, flat enough that it doesn't distort his shirts, and it feels oddly like it's a part of him, no matter how silly that might sound. "She never took it off. It was a family heirloom, she said."

Clint's eyes widen comically, and he makes an aborted move forward. Phil blinks in surprise, letting the pendant drop against his chest. Clint seems to snap out of it, but his eyes remain locked on the pendant, and he looks-- well, shocked.

"Something wrong?" Phil asks, and Clint takes half a step back, like he can physically break the connection he seems to have to that thing.

"No. It's beautiful," he says, looking away, and apparently the years haven't changed things all that much, because Phil can still tell when Clint's lying to him. He lets it be, for now, but he knows he won't rest until he gets to the bottom of it.

Clint clears his throat. "So. Your daughter. Is she going to freak out when she wakes up and there's some strange guy sleeping on the sofa?"

She probably will. "I'll leave her a note," Phil says, and goes to do just that before he forgets. He returns downstairs with a set of clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, to find out that Clint had apparently been prepared to tough it out in just his leather pants. 

"Now she'd definitely freak out. Here. You can change into these." He hands the clothes over, and tries not to stare as Clint pulls the t-shirt over his head and down his firmly muscled torso. Not to mention when he starts unzipping his pants, at which point Phil feels the urgent need to find something, _anything_ else to focus on.

"We usually get up around nine on Saturdays. Don't panic if you hear something that sounds like a herd of rhinoceri, that's just Ripley when she knows we're making pancakes."

"You're making pancakes?" Clint says, a curl of a smile at one end of his mouth. It's incredibly distracting.

Phil shrugs. "I hope you brought an appetite, we make enough to feed several armies."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Clint smirks.

Phil heads for the stairs. "Well, good night," he throws over his shoulder. There's something he never thought he'd be saying to Clint Barton, ever, no matter how hard he might have wished for it. Life has a funny way of working out sometimes. He stops at the door, makes himself say, "And I meant it about Natasha. Ask her over, if you want." And then he hightails it out of there before he makes a fool of himself and tries to crawl under the blankets with Clint, because _damn_ , have you _seen_ the guy?! 

Ugh, Phil needs to get laid, and soon. 

Sleep is a long time in coming that night, and when it does come, it's full of things he doesn't understand, of fog so thick he can't see two steps in front of him, of a strong hand on his arm, keeping him close, of blond hair and burning blue light, of blood and sunlight glinting through snowflakes, merging with them until they shine so bright he is blinded.

When a small body lands on top of him what feels like just minutes later, Phil reacts before he thinks: he rolls, pinning it down under his, hands closing over thin arms. Ripley giggles delightedly while he tries to catch his breath and push the adrenaline back. 

"Morning, Daddy," she chirps. "Pancakes! Now!"

Phil groans and rolls back over, rubbing at his face. Sunlight is streaming through the window -- Ripley must have thrown back the curtains, or he never closed them last night, it's hard to remember. 

"Come _onnnn_ ," Ripley wheedles, jumping back out of bed and grabbing his bare ankle, tugging at him so hard her body is almost horizontal. Phil snaps his leg in, throwing her back onto the bed. The peals of her laughter brighten up the house so much more than sunrays ever could.

"All right, all right," he grumbles, after he has tickled her into submission. "Pancakes. Let's go."

It's only after they walk (hurdle) downstairs that Phil remembers his visitor from last night. He steps inside the living room, but the sheet and blanket are neatly folded up on one end of the sofa, and the cushions barely have a dip in them to indicate anyone slept there last night. He turns for the kitchen, to find Ripley standing in the doorway and peering cautiously inside. Phil looks in, and finds Clint sitting at the kitchen table, back in his leathers, putting paid to the weekend paper's crossword. In pen, the show-off. Clint looks up exaggeratedly after a moment, and so Phil knows he must have heard them coming ages ago.

"Good morning," Clint says politely, remarkably non-threatening considering his clothes. His smile is benign, _look how cute I am, come scratch my ears_. Phil barely holds in a snort, but he appreciates Clint's efforts not to scare Ripley.

"Ripley, this is Clint. He's an old friend of mine. We ran into each again other last night, at the shop. He helped me out in a tight spot, and I asked him to come back here so we could talk. He spent the night on the sofa."

Ripley's eyes are huge when she looks up at him. "With demones?" she whispers, stepping back until her side hits his legs.

"Yes. Clint actually saved my life the first time I ran into them. I was just seventeen back then."

Ripley looks back at Clint with newfound respect. Clint, on the other hand, looks taken aback. His eyes dart between Phil and Ripley, and it's obvious there's something on his mind.

"Honey, why don't you go measure out the flour for the batter? I'll get the milk and the eggs," Phil says.

Ripley goes happily, but she stops by Clint's chair and waits patiently to be noticed, which doesn't take long.

"Thank you for helping my Dad," she says shyly, and then runs past him before Clint can answer. 

He does anyway: "You're very welcome." His voice is softer than Phil has ever heard it, and he looks charmed. Yep, that's his girl all right, knocking everyone she meets out for six.

Ripley helps measure out the ingredients, and once Phil has everything ready, she runs off to watch TV while the pancakes cook. After Phil has mixed the batter and is setting the pan on the hob, Clint comes to lean next to him on the counter. 

"She's a sweet kid," he says.

Phil nods. "That she is."

Clint shifts on his feet. "I can't believe you told her about the _δαίμονες_ ," he mutters.

Phil sends him a discouraging look. "She needs to know so she can protect herself. God knows we have enough proof that I can't protect her -- or anyone else, for that matter."

The silence that follows that announcement is broken only by the sizzling of butter in the pan while Phil stirs the batter and adjusts the mix.

"Phil, you know it wasn't your fault your wife was killed," Clint says softly. Phil doesn't know what gets him more: the tone, Clint using his first name again, or the obvious sincerity of his words.

He shakes his head. "I should have told her more about them, but I'd hoped they might leave me alone, once I was married."

Clint frowns, and looks like he wants to say more, but Phil turns away and starts spooning batter into the pan and turning it so it coats the bottom. It had been a stupid thing to assume, and Idris had paid for it with her life.

The silence holds, and becomes more peaceful after a few minutes. Phil looks longingly at his coffee machine, and calculates the odds of burning a pancake while he juggles frying and coffee-making. Clint huffs a laugh after a moment of watching him.

"Tell me where you keep the coffee and let me at it."

Phil grins in relief and points to the cupboard over the coffee machine, ignoring the soft "of course" that Clint murmurs to himself. He fries, and Clint wrangles his coffee maker with no further need for instructions, and Ripley sneaks in to steal a pancake off the top of the pile just as the drip starts filling the pot, suffusing the kitchen with the mingling scent of butter and pancakes and coffee. It's so ridiculously, delightfully domestic that Phil forgets for a moment why he shouldn't revel in it, why he shouldn't smile at Clint and smack his hand away as he tries to steal a pancake himself. Clint however, unlike Ripley, is ambidextrous, so while Phil is fielding his right hand, his left slides under his radar. The resulting grin is so smug and self-satisfied that it makes Phil laugh without intending to. Clint stuffs half of the pancake in his mouth, moans like a damn porn star, and eyes the pile with a single-minded intent that shouldn't look so sexy. 

"No," Phil says, in a clear, firm tone of voice. Unlike the dog Phil used to look after for a friend while they had both been at college, Clint refuses to slink away chastised, but rather looks like he's calculating odds and formulating a strategy. It's ridiculously endearing. 

The domestic tableau continues until there's a knock at the back door, which startles Phil and makes Clint look caught-out.

"Uh, I did ask Natasha to come by, like you suggested," he says meekly. "Sorry I forgot to tell you. That's probably her now."

Phil feels some of his good humour drain away, but he fixes a smile on his face and says, "Well, for goodness' sake, let her in."

It doesn't occur to him until later that he had locked up the garden gate leading to the back door, which is easily seven feet high. But then, Natasha is a professional _δαίμονες_ hunter. That's probably an open invitation for her.

Natasha doesn't look much different from the way she used to twelve years ago. Sure, she's a little taller, a little curvier, but she still gives off an air of quiet competence with just the slightest hint of menace. She is dressed in a button-down white shirt and worn blue jeans. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and the top few buttons are left undone. She looks like effortless elegance personified, and carries herself like a ninja, light on her feet with a dancer's grace. The only significant change is her hair. The long red ringlets are gone; instead, she wears it side-parted and cropped to under her chin, held out of her face by a smooth white hair clip. She looks between Phil and Clint, eyes focused and assessing. 

"Hello, Natasha," Phil says, because he wasn't raised in a barn.

"Hello, Phil," Natasha answers easily, taking her cue from him. "Thank you for having me over."

Phil's about to tell her it's a pleasure when Natasha's focus shifts palpably. Clint turns, looking back towards the living room, and Phil follows immediately. Ripley stands in the open doorway, eyes huge in her freckled face.

Phil smiles immediately, trying to put her at ease. "Honey, come meet Natasha. Natasha, this is my daughter Ripley."

Natasha smiles. The change in her face is remarkable; it softens her features, pulls her full lips back to reveal even white teeth. Her eyes crinkle in the corners a little.

"Hi, Ripley," she says."That's a lovely name." 

"Hello," Ripley answers, barely above a whisper. She hasn't looked away from Natasha once.

Phil starts to frown, not sure how to deal with Ripley's odd behaviour, when she walks further inside and comes to stand a little behind him, like she used to when she was little and was worried what people would think of her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Natasha adds, still smiling, and Ripley relaxes a little, enough to send Natasha back a shy smile. 

The tension is masterfully broken by Clint's suspicious sniffing. All of a sudden Phil remembers that he had a pancake in the pan when Natasha opened the door, and it's now only fit for the trash. He disposes of it deftly, drains out the charred butter and slices a new knob inside the pan. The smell disperses quickly, and he looks up again.

"Set the table, sweetheart," he asks, and Ripley drags her eyes away from Natasha a little guiltily. 

"Okay, Dad."

"Hey, can I help?" Natasha says easily, and then volunteers Clint as well, even though he tries to slink back, away from the action. Ripley dives into the pantry, pulling out raspberry and strawberry jams, the old and new bottles of maple syrup, the blueberries he got last night, and then some cheese and platefuls of slices of ham and bacon from the fridge. She also pulls out a jar of mayonnaise. Clint looks like she just magicked a plate of snails out of the depths, but says nothing, for which Phil is grateful. Ripley has extremely eclectic eating habits -- she likes mixing up her flavours, and Phil likes to indulge her, at least on Saturdays. 

By the time Phil flips the last pancake onto the plate, he turns to find three eager faces at the table, each clutching a knife and fork in their hands. Phil's "Dig in" gets lost in the clash of cutlery and giggles as the three of them fight for the hottest pancake, and Natasha's triumphant "Ha!" when she gets it. Phil can't quite stop the stupid grin on his face, even less when his eyes meet Clint's happy blue ones and hold them. 

Breakfast demolished, Ripley runs off upstairs to finish packing her weekend bag, and Phil takes his time putting away the accompaniments to the meal. He hears soft whispering at the table, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Clint and Natasha conduct a complex conversation using facial cues and a few quiet words here and there. Something unpleasant stirs in Phil's gut, and he looks away, lest he fails to conceal how much he envies them.

He's in the pantry, putting away the jams and syrup and doing a quick tidying up to give them a moment when he hears their voices rise, not much, just to a low hum. What they don't know, of course, is that the pantry has a vent high on the wall and _excellent_ accoustics. Phil should probably walk back out; it's rude to eavesdrop, not least because you might not like what you hear, but the itch of curiosity under his skin is stronger. Really, he'd rather know what they think of him -- of the two of them -- now rather than later.

"Have you told him yet?" Natasha murmurs, and Phil hears Clint's rough exhale. 

"No, damn it, I have not. When would I have told him? How is it even possible that I found him like that, after--whatever, yeah, okay, I know I shouldn't be surprised."

"We've been looking for a long time, Clint," Natasha says. 

Another huff of breath; Phil imagines Clint with his hands shoved into his hair, looking up at the ceiling as if for guidance. 

"I know," Clint repeats softly. "I will tell him."

Phil doesn't quite know how he feels, hearing those words. On the one hand, he is desperately curious to know what could possibly be the reason that they'd been looking for _him_ of all people -- unless he'd got that wrong, and they are talking about someone else entirely. 

On the other hand, there's a pool of dread circling his gut as well, wondering why Clint would be so hesitant to talk to him -- wondering what he might say.

On the third, mutant hand, there's a tiny tug of--something, maybe pleasure, maybe relief, at knowing that the two of them will be hanging around for just a little bit longer. And yeah, he _knows_ this means nothing, and he knows that in all likelihood Clint and Natasha are together, like he imagined for all those years, but he just can't squash the stupid hope that makes it easier to breathe, that maybe--

God, he's being such an idiot. And setting himself up for _such_ a fall. He's going to wait and see. He isn't going to push, or act weird, or give away that he overheard them. He's going to let _them_ come to _him_. He won't be making the same mistake as he did twelve years ago. 

And if that means that the revelations would be a few days in coming -- well. He's quite alright with that.

Ripley thunders back down the stairs, dragging her overnight bag and her backpack behind her. She throws them by the front door and rushes back into the kitchen, looking relieved that Natasha and Clint are still there. She shyly hoists herself up onto the chair and looks at the table, face pink.

"So, Ripley, what grade are you in now?" Natasha asks, sounding perfectly sincere in her curiosity.

Ripley answers, and they fall into an easy conversation about which subjects she likes best and the field hockey team she's on. Clint smiles at them, and listens, but after a little while he gets up to join Phil at the kitchen sink, snagging a drying towel off the nearby drawer handle like he's been doing it for years. 

"You don't have to," Phil starts, but Clint silences him with a look that's so warm that it reaches all the way down to Phil's toes. 

"I know you won't let me do the washing up, but you cooked. It's only fair."

"Thanks, then," Phil murmurs, catching Clint's small, pleased grin out of the corner of his eye. 

"So what are your plans for this weekend?" Clint asks, which makes Phil have to stifle a relieved smile since he's been stewing over whether or not to ask that question himself. 

"Ripley's going to a friend's house, and I'll probably do some cleaning, go to the supermarket, cook a few things and freeze them for later. You know. Single father things."

Clint nods again, a strange look on his face, like he's slotting what Phil told him into some map in his head. "Sounds like fun," he says with a smirk, and Phil gives him the stink-eye. It's just--things. That need doing, and since he's the only one around... 

"What about you and Natasha?" he asks tentatively. "Do you have any plans?"

Clint looks at him oddly. "We're going to stake out a few places, get our bearings around the town."

"Ah," Phil says. He still has no idea whether they're an item or just really, really good friends, but he has no idea how to ask -- that is, until the light of his life does it for him.

"Is Clint your boyfriend?" she asks timidly, small voice cutting through the sudden hush.

Natasha--laughs. Hard. "No," she says, while Clint glares at her. The glare turns into a pout after a few moments, and Phil has to look away to hide both his grin and the sudden, worrying lightness in his chest.

"No need to sound so happy about it," Clint grumbles. Ripley looks confused, but she's got a small grin on her face, too.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Natasha gasps. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise. It's just that--the idea of Clint and I--" and she's gone again, little gasps of hilarity dotting her giggles.

"Hey now," Clint complains. "You don't have to laugh so damn hard about it, pardon my French, Ripley."

"Sorry, sorry," Natasha tries again, waving her hand. "I'm sorry, Ripley. We did actually try going together for a while. It just didn't stick. He is in love with someone else, you see."

And just like that, the lightness in Phil's chest disappears without a trace. Of course. This is his life. He's just not meant to have nice things -- or maybe having Ripley balances everything else out, because yeah, maybe having something that wonderful in his life uses up all of his 'nice things' quota. It's hard to resent it, if that's the case.

Clint is looking at the floor, ears pink, but Phil feels Natasha's eyes on him like a lead weight, so he pushes all his stupid disappointment back and finishes rinsing the last plate, slotting it into the drainer to put away later. 

"You ready to go, baby?" he asks, taking the towel from Clint's lax fingers and drying his hands.

"Yeah," Ripley yells, back to her normal level of enthusiasm, which is great to see. Clearly she feels comfortable around Natasha, which Phil finds himself feeling good about. She needs a female role model around, and if that woman is Natasha, well, all the better for it. At least Phil knows he can rely on her to give Ripley the right ideas.

"Clint, we should go, too, we have work to do," Natasha says meaningfully. Clint nods, stepping away from Phil, who only realises how close they were standing when he misses the warmth of Clint's body nearby. This is getting out of control. He needs to shut this thing down, and fast, because sooner or later Clint and Natasha will be on their way again, away from him, and he needs to be prepared for it. He's got someone else to think of now. He can't let himself indulge in silly hoping and wishing, and ignore the facts.

"All right, then, grab your coat, honey," Phil says, patting his pockets for his keys. When he looks up, Clint is staring at his hands, nostrils flaring. Phil--well, he can't help the flush of heat that takes over, pep talk or no, because god, he _wants_ Clint, like nothing he has ever felt before. Even with Idris, it hadn't been like this. He'd loved her with all his heart, but she never felt like a missing piece, like something slotting into his life in just the right way. Clint hasn't even been here twenty-four hours, and already Phil knows with a certainty that leaves him breathless that when Clint moves on, it will be -- hard for Phil to follow his lead, despite his best efforts.

He looks away, makes himself walk past Clint without reacting, lopes up the stairs to change his shirt and then busies himself with stepping into his shoes and shrugging into a lightweight jacket. By this time Ripley is standing to attention at the door, all but vibrating with excitement. Phil crouches in front of her and looks her in the eyes.

"Okay. You have your cell? The pepper spray?" Ripley nods, expression shifting into serious. She has never spent a night away from home before, but Phil has known for some time that the moment was coming, and he does his best to swallow back the inevitable anxiety. "You have my number, and you have Uncle Tom's number. Now, I want you to promise me that you and Marta won't go wandering off without telling her moms where you're going, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy. Promise."

"Good. You have your toothbrush and pajamas?"

At last, Ripley rolls her eyes and grins at him. "Yeah, Daddy, I got everything, can we go now?"

Phil grins back and tugs her into a hug, which she returns, squeezing hard. "Okay. Here's thirty bucks. Try not to spend it all at once."

Ripley solemnly promises she won't, and stuffs the money into her jeans pocket.

"Right. Ready?"

"Ready!"

Clint and Natasha had been standing a few steps away the entire time, silent as cats, but as Phil straightens, Clint comes forward to crouch in front of Ripley in his place. Phil blinks, and looks down at him, but Clint only has eyes for Ripley right now.

"Can I see your phone a moment, Ripley?" Clint asks her, strangely intent. Ripley looks to Phil, questioning. Phil shrugs and nods, so she takes her phone out of her little backpack and hands it over to Clint. Clint taps at it for a few moments, and then presses Send. A phone chirps from Natasha's direction, and she pulls it out of her jeans pocket, dismissing the call. Clint repeats the procedure, making his own phone ring this time. Then he hands the phone back over.

"I've put mine and Natasha's phone numbers in there for you, just in case. Call us if you need anything, anything at all. Not that you'll need to, but I feel better knowing you have our numbers, too. Okay?"

"Anything at all," Natasha echoes with a reassuring smile.

Ripley looks at both of them, eyes big and earnest. Phil doesn't know what to think, what to feel; it's too much, the emotion inside him is too big to master. It tastes strongly of relief, and gratitude, because knowing what Clint and Natasha have been through, Phil knows what this means. This is them, pledging to protect his daughter, and after all the years of fear, the nagging worry that one day something might happen to him and Ripley will have no one to look out for her, this feels like a vice unclenching from around his chest, like a breath of air that fills him all the way down to his heels.

"Okay," Ripley promises, and Clint looks up at him now, something a little anxious in his eyes. Phil doesn't know what the expression on his face shows; he's still trying to get a handle on all those feelings inside him, but whatever it is, it eases the worried lines around Clint's eyes. The smile Clint sends him is nothing short of incendiary. Phil can't breathe. He needs a moment.

"Right," he announces, voice a little strangled. "Time to go." He opens the front door, shoulders Ripley's overnight bag and walks out, leaving them to follow. 

He has just about got his breathing under control when Ripley catches up with him, climbing into the back seat of the Acura, face awash with excitement. Phil avoids Clint's gaze as he stows her things in the trunk, then doubles back to lock up.

"I'll see you around, then," he manages as he passes Clint again; his whole face is burning, he can tell. Jesus, he's getting too old for this teenaged crap.

"Sure thing," Clint calls after him, easy and assured. 

Phil gets in his car and drives off. And if his eyes linger on the rear view mirror, watching Clint watch them drive away while Natasha unlocks their battered Impala; and if he's convinced that, even though it's impossible, Clint's eyes catch his and hold them again, just like they had at the kitchen table -- well. He tries not to think about that too hard.

The ride over to Marie and Lettie's place is uneventful. It's a beautiful summer day, if still a little too cool to just go out in his shirtsleeves, but he lets the car window down and turns on the radio, and listens to Ripley happily butcher the latest Top 20 hit -- sadly, she has inherited her father's singing voice, but that doesn't stop her from enjoying herself hugely. It's not long past eleven, since Ripley woke them up at eight out of excitement, and the streets are just now starting to fill. He drops Ripley off, hands Marie the conciliatory bottle of wine, and makes Ripley promise him again to call if something happens. 

"Sure, Dad," she replies distractedly, head already touching Marta's as they resume whispering excitedly.

"Don't worry, Phil, we'll keep an eye on them," Marie says, voice rich with resigned amusement, and Phil forces himself to stop worrying. It'll be fine.

"Have fun," he calls, climbing back into the car. Ripley waves, and then runs after Marta into the house, followed more sedately by Marta's mom. Marie and Lettie are good people, and Phil trusts them; he would never let Ripley stay with them overnight if he didn't. He knows both of them fairly well; they'd been one of the first couples he had met after moving here, two tall Afro-Caribbean women, one lean and stern-looking, but with a ready smile for almost everyone, and the other soft and comforting, a real motherly type. Ripley and Marta had been thick as thieves the second they'd been introduced. He can leave Ripley in their capable hands for a day.

At the supermarket, Phil loads up the cart with ingredients for stew, lasagna, chicken soup, things they can make last at least a couple of days each. He gets some ground beef to make meatballs, and then he empties out the vegetable counter: green beans, potatoes, mushrooms, carrots, all kinds of things to cook or to eat raw. He gets a six-pack of microbrew for himself, although he doubts that he'll feel relaxed enough to have more than one, what with--things. He gets a few pints of ice cream, too. It's not going to be all that long before the Florida summer is upon them in earnest, and then he expects he and Ripley will survive on iced _everything_ for the duration.

He gets all of this home, into the kitchen -- and stops. On the fridge, directly across from the doorway, is a note attached under a magnet from Atlanta, from the last time they'd visited Lucy.

Phil stares at it for a while, reaches up to remove it, changes his mind. He still doesn't know what to think, not about the care Clint is showing for him and Ripley, nor about the circumstances that have thrown them together again. It seem to him that there are things at play here that he doesn't understand at all, and doesn't have the first clue what to do about. For so long now, he has been telling himself to forget all about Clint Barton; more than once, he had scoffed at his younger self, who had thought that Clint might have wanted Phil to fight for him. More likely than not, Clint had forgotten him as soon as Phil had walked away. After all, there isn't much that is memorable about Phil Coulson.

Confusion follows him through the day, refusing to be exorcised by the cooking and cleaning Phil normally defaults to when his mind is in turmoil. Clint's face chases him throughout, making him wonder whether Clint will share the lasagna he's preparing for himself and Ripley, how long it will be before Phil sees him again. In spite of his best efforts, Phil can't stop thinking about him. 

He goes to bed early that night, after distracting himself with some action flick that doesn't require much input from his brain. He floats drowsily in that space his mind inhabits when it's winding down, where nebulous tendrils of thought drift this way and that, when connections he's been fighting not to make happen effortlessly. Phil shifts, and lets out a deep sigh, feeling the tip of his cock press tightly against the sheets, seeking relief. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't, but he's close to sleep, and the rational part of his brain seems to have succumbed already. God, he has never _wanted_ someone so much in his life; just the mere thought of Clint near him is enough to make his body hum, and the thought of actually touching him, of Clint wanting to touch back, of Clint wanting to _stay_ \-- it makes his chest feel tight, makes his fingers squeeze his cock reflexively when he reaches for it. Desire is a live wire under his skin; he arches into his own grip, thinks of Clint's mouth curled in a smile, his long fingers holding the felt-tip pen as he scribbled that note, tucked it under the magnet; wonders what Clint must have been thinking as he did that, remembers him in those _damn leathers_ , and last night as he had taken them off, and _god_ , that alone shouldn't be doing these things to him, shouldn't be making him feel like his skin is too tight for his body, like his heart will burst out of his chest with how it's slamming against his ribs. The smooth, pale skin of Clint's back, dotted with tiny moles and freckles, the toned muscles of his shoulders flexing as he pulled the t-shirt on -- god, _god_ , oh, _Clint_. 

He lies there after it's over, throat tight with words unsaid, with things he needs to hold back. He rubs at his face with his clean hand, kicks the sheets back and pads softly into the bathroom, where he stands staring at himself in the mirror over the sink for a long time. He has to stop this. He has to. He can't risk it; he remembers too well the ripping pain of that night, of having to turn his back on Clint and walk away. He wouldn't be able to do it again, and when Clint inevitably does it for him, he doesn't know how he will stop feeling like this, like his chest will cave in, like he can't draw his next breath. He will do it, for Ripley, but he wonders wearily if he won't have to leave another piece of himself behind as payment for his recklessness. 

He falls asleep that night wondering if the price even matters.

\---

A week passes, then two, without a word from Clint and Natasha. School is almost out for summer, and Ripley is barely home -- if she's not working on the decors for the end-of-year school play (she continues to amaze Phil with how brilliant an artist she's turning out to be -- she didn't get that from him, that's for sure), or at field hockey practice, she's at Marta's house, conspiring with a group of her school friends, making plans for the long, languid days of summer stretching ahead. Left to his own devices, Phil can do little else but wait, and wait, and stew over what he'll do when Clint turns up again -- if he ever does, that is. He does his best not to stare around too much, not to look like he's waiting for something awful to happen. The more time that passes without change, the more restless he gets, the more he becomes convinced that something horrible is coming. Ripley starts sending him these strange glances out of the corner of her eyes; she looks concerned when he catches her at it, and that's not something Phil can countenance. He never wants to make her worry about him; surely it's _his_ job to worry about _her_.

Nevertheless, he can't seem to stop checking his phone for missed calls or messages from numbers unknown. Every time the screen remains clear, Phil's gut contracts. He starts seriously considering swiping Clint's number from Ripley's phone; the only thing that stops him time and again is the thought that Clint clearly had no compunction about giving his number to Ripley, so if he'd really wanted Phil to have it, he would have found a way to make that happen. As it is, all Phil can do is wait, keep his eyes open, and stew some more. 

Ripley corners him the morning before her last hockey match of the season, like only she can -- she is her mother's daughter and her aunt's niece. He's been tasked with braiding her hair so that it's kept out of her face and doesn't come loose during play; so he dutifully brushes her soft, long tresses and devotes his attention to making sure the braid is tight enough. He's so focused on his task that it takes him a full five minutes to realise that Ripley has been watching him intently in the mirror on her dressing table.

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?" he asks, taking care not to pause in his work. He hopes she knows that she can talk to him about everything and anything at all; nothing could make him think any less of her. 

She's silent for so long that Phil thinks he isn't going to get an answer at all, and is trying not to give in to his paranoia and worry without cause. She keeps eyeing him in the mirror, so he schools his face into an open, amiable look and hopes it conceals his trepidation for whatever subject is about to be brought up after so much build-up, that could have put that look on her face. 

"Did you and Clint have a fight when you were younger?" she asks timidly. It's so far away from anything Phil has been expecting that he genuinely hasn't the words to reply at first. 

"Why do you ask?" he tries, knowing it's a cowardly deflection, but unable to stop himself from trying to stall for time to get his bearings. 

Ripley looks annoyed -- and worse, disappointed. Phil feels like a heel. He's always reminding himself not to underestimate his kid; she has fantastic observational skills for someone her age, and she's growing so fast, turning into such an amazing young woman that it would be a crime to stifle her progress just because he's afraid. Seeing her look disappointed in him hits him right in the gut, makes him resolve to do anything, anything at all, to avoid ever seeing that look on her face again. 

"I'm sorry," he says, wordlessly acknowledging that she's right. "Yes. You could say that."

"But you don't hate him, right?"

The answer is so far from a negation that it's in another universe entirely. "No, Ripley. I don't hate him."

She looks pensive, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows. God, Phil loves her so much. He knows what she's going to ask next, can practically see the question forming behind her eyes. What is he going to tell her? How is he going to explain to her that he's bisexual, that he loved her mother so much, but somehow found himself still thinking about a pair of azure-blue eyes more often than he wanted to admit to? 

\--And yes, here it comes, just like he knew it would.

"What did you fight about?" Ripley asks tentatively, like she's expecting him to brush her off, and oh, god. Phil always knew that one day it was going to come to this, but he never imagined he would have to broach this subject with her so soon, without someone there at his side, someone worth the coming awkwardness. He knows, he _knows_ that Ripley is aware of same-sex couples -- she adores Marie and Lettie -- but maybe it'll be different when it comes to her own dad? Oh god, what is he supposed to say?

As soon as that thought registers, Phil wants to scoff at himself. He'll tell her the truth, of course, just like he always does. Like he always will, because she's his daughter and she deserves nothing less from him, and to hell with telling white lies just because it would be easier on him. 

He stops what he's doing, clips the end of the braid to sort out later and rests his hands on top of Ripley's shoulders, turning her around to face him. 

"Ripley, honey. There's something you should know, about Clint and--about me. When we first met, Clint and I... Well, I'd like to say we dated, but it was just the one date, and then the _δαίμονες_ attack happened, and -- well, long story short, his mother forbid him from seeing me ever again, and he left. It's been years since I last saw him. And then I met your mother, and we had you, and I never imagined that I'd see him again, but now he's here and -- well, the truth is that he still confuses me as much as he ever did."

He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and gets to the point, hoping against hope that this won't ruin things between them, hoping that he won't lose his daughter over a part of himself he never thought he would have cause to explore again. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm bisexual. I loved your mother, very much -- but I also loved Clint, once upon a time."

Ripley just looks at him for a long, long moment, while Phil's insides try to tie themselves in knots -- and then she proves him to be an idiot, not for the first -- and, he suspects, far from the last time.

"Daddy, be honest," she says, very seriously. "It wasn't just back then, was it? You're still in love with Clint. That's why you've been so miserable the past few days. Oh, Daddy, it's okay. I'm sure he still loves you, too. How could he not? You are wonderful." And then she hugs him around the middle, burying her face in his stomach, and Phil honestly has to fight to keep the sting of tears from showing on his face. Jesus Christ, how did he get so lucky? He is an idiot. He should never have doubted his little girl. He feels ashamed of himself that he'd ever imagined that she'd turn away from him. Love truly makes you do and think some crazy things.

"I love you," he says, hugging her back until she starts squirming and gasping theatrically for air. He squeezes her again for good measure, and lets her go, pressing a relieved kiss to her forehead.

She rolls her eyes. "I love you too, Daddy. Now can we please finish my hair? I have to be on the field in forty-five minutes."

"Yes, ma'am," Phil says dryly, saluting smartly and making her giggle with delight. 

He makes an effort to keep his thoughts from showing on his face until she's done and rushing away to get her backpack. Much as he adores his daughter, he is well aware that she is biased. It'll take a lot more than the lingering torch he carries for Clint Barton to make him even look at Phil twice anymore.

\---

The status quo breaks just as Phil is least expecting it, like these things always tend to. It's post-game, and Ripley is staying at Marta's house again, to celebrate the team's win, so Phil has the house to himself once again. He's busy making a dent in rearranging his closet from winter to summer wear, something he always ends up putting off until it's practically July. He's folding up some sweaters when the knock comes; with his head stuck in his closet, he almost misses it, but there's a curious tug inside his chest that makes him stand still until he hears the unmistakable rap of knuckles on wood again. 

He opens the door to find Clint looking worn-out and sleep-deprived, greyish-purple half-moons of exhaustion under his eyes. 

"I need your help," Clint says without much preamble. He looks prepared to stand outside the door all night if needs be, so Phil steps back to let him in -- at least they can talk inside. 

"What with?" he asks over his shoulder, leading the way back to the kitchen and going through the motions of starting a pot of coffee without much conscious input from his brain. Clint looks like he can use it -- that, or an uninterrupted ten hours of sleep, but the latter isn't looking very likely right now.

Behind him, there's the soft scrape of a chair being pulled back, before Clint sighs wearily. Phil chances a look, only to find Clint propping his head up with his hands like it's the only thing holding it up. 

"We found the nest," he says, voice a little hoarse. Phil wonders with not a little concern when the last time was that Clint slept. 

"And?"

Clint rifles his hands through his hair. "It's big. Not as big as the one that took my people out, but nearly as dangerous. We need to neutralise it, and fast."

Phil nods in agreement. "How do we do that?"

Clint's head shoots up, and he fixes Phil with that penetrating gaze that always used to make Phil feel like Clint sees all the way inside him and out on the other side -- still does. 

"You'll help us, then?" he asks, so heartbreakingly relieved that for a moment, just for a brief second, all Phil wants to do is walk over to him and bury his hands in Clint's hair, tug his head to rest against Phil's stomach and brace him there, agree to anything that will make Clint's burden go away. 

But it's not just himself he has to think of anymore, hard as it is to remember that right now. "What would my help entail?" he asks, hanging back, because if he steps closer to Clint right now, he honestly doesn't know what he might do.

Clint frowns. "We need you to come with us, help set up some gas canister traps. Natasha's scoping out the best positions for them right now. We'll have to box the _δαίμονες_ in, hold them back so that the gas can do the job. It's too much ground to cover quickly enough with two people alone."

Phil doesn't even know how he's supposed to react to that. He forces himself to hold back the furious words bubbling up in his throat; behind his back, his hands clench on the counter, like it can help him keep his composure. Fear and anger tangle up in his chest, lashing out until all Phil can do is hang on and try not to let them take him over.

"You want me to go fight a _nest of δαίμονες_ with you, big enough that you don't think you can handle it with just two people. _Me_. A, what did your mother call me? A _civilian_. Did you forget that I have a _daughter_? One that has already lost her mother and her grandmother? Fuck, Barton, I never thought you could be so callous. Did you even think at all before coming to me?"

Clint flinches back against the chair, face closing down until all traces of weakness have been locked away and his eyes have turned flinty and cold. 

"You think I would forget something like that? You think I would ask you at all, if there was any other way? This is for _her_ as well as this town, asshole. What do you think would happen if those things are left to their own devices? The nest is going to grow, and eventually there are going to be too many to hold off back, and then what? What if they go after her, after _you_ in those numbers?"

Pure blinding terror spreads through Phil's chest at the thought of the _δαίμονες_ coming after Ripley. It's overwhelming; he feels frozen in place, so fucking _helpless_ , so useless. He knows Clint is right, but leaving Ripley behind, without knowing if he was coming back? Could he really do this to her? No, he should take her and run, skip town and keep going, some place far, far away where he might be able to hide her for a while longer. 

"Clint, I can't," he manages through lungs almost locked with dread. "I can't leave her. I'm the only one she has left. Who'll look after her if we end up getting ourselves killed?"

Clint stares at him, and if Phil thought his face had closed up before, it's nothing to the blankness that spreads over it now. It's like all emotion, all _hope_ has leached away from him, and god, it _hurts_ , so fucking bad, to see Clint look like that, but what is Phil supposed to do here? If it was just himself, he wouldn't hesitate. But with Ripley to think of...

"You're right," Clint says, and his voice is _dead_. That more than anything gets to Phil and turns his insides to ice. Clint sounds like he has accepted his fate -- like he doesn't expect to come back from this. "I don't know what I was thinking. You're a good dad, Phil. She's lucky to have you. Take care of yourself."

And then he's out of the chair and through the kitchen door before Phil even realises what happened.

"Clint," he calls out desperately, rushing towards it, but by the time he steps out into the back yard, Clint is gone. Phil's knees fail him, and he sinks back against the doorframe, hands over his face. God, what has he done?

He doesn't even know how long he spends there, slumped against the side of the house. It all feels like a daze, unreal; he can't even try to wrap his mind around the fact that Clint might have just been saying goodbye. Urgency churns inside his gut, for Phil to rush out after him; but Clint never told him where the nest was based, and he would be in more danger out there than in here. Fuck, Clint was right; Phil should have gone with him. What if Clint and Natasha aren't enough to stop this? Will Phil ever know what happened to them if they failed? Will he hear a report tomorrow, or the day after, some insipid news anchor yapping on about two bodies found in the swamp under suspicious circumstances? What then? What will he and Ripley do?

Fuck it, he should have swallowed his pride and gotten Clint's number off of Ripley's phone after all. 

He can't concentrate on anything. He paces the house, from the front room to the kitchen and back, hoping against hope that Clint might come back, at least for supplies -- he must know the nature of the shop Phil runs. Deep inside, though, he knows that Clint won't be coming back. That Phil has blown his chance once and for all; that because of his cowardice he might have just sent two people to their deaths tonight. He bites the tears back viciously, telling himself he hasn't the right to feel fucking sorry for himself, that he shouldn't act like Clint and Natasha are dead already; that he should go out there and damn the risks, try to find them, try to _help_ \--

Loud bangs at the front door interrupt the charged silence, and Phil races for it, heart in his throat. Maybe he'll get the chance to fix this, after all.

All his breath leaves in a rush when he opens the door and finds Natasha holding Clint upright by what looks like sheer willpower, blood bright in Clint's blond hair and running down their arms, glistening sickeningly in the porch light. 

"Oh my god," Phil breathes, scooting back so Natasha can drag Clint inside. Clint's head lolls down against his chest; he looks too weak to even stand, let alone walk. "What happened?" Phil demands, hands hovering, not knowing if he should touch, how he can help.

"The _δαίμονες_ have developed a partial immunity to the oleoresin capsicum," Natasha rasps grimly. "It solidifies them, but they don't disintegrate immediately. They can fight like that, and they're fucking strong."

Phil takes this in as Natasha makes it inside the living room and drops Clint on the couch. Clint's head falls back onto the cushions; he has clearly lost consciousness. 

"Is he okay?" Phil blurts, torn between stepping closer and going to fetch some bandages, water, alcohol, anything, he isn't too sure right now.

"Yeah, one of them got in a nasty blow before we could get out of there. He'll be fine, but he might be a little concussed."

It explains the blood -- head wounds always look worse than they actually are. "What do we do now?" Phil asks, looking to Natasha. Her face is grim, and as he watches, she actually sways in place. Phil nudges her towards one of the armchairs until she sinks into it with a weary sigh and rubs a hand over her eyes.

"I don't know. I'm sure I don't need to draw you a picture of how bad this recent development is. We've lost our edge against them. All we can do now is pray that by some miracle they haven't tracked us here -- otherwise we're sitting ducks."

Phil doesn't know what to say to that. This is a disaster. He fidgets for a few minutes, looking between the two of them, before he decides he might as well stop just standing there like a berk and make himself useful, He goes to the kitchen, fetches several clean dish towels, wets one and comes back to the living room, folding it up and pressing it to Clint's forehead, cleaning the blood off as best he can.

"I'm so sorry," he grits out quietly, chest aching as he looks down at Clint's battered face. "Maybe if I'd been there--"

"No," Natasha says. It's decisive, but it's kindly, too. "You'd have just gotten him distracted trying to protect you. You couldn't have helped, not with this."

Phil frowns as he refolds the towel and finishes his task. "Why would he have been distracted by me?" he asks. He doesn't see what Natasha's getting at.

She's silent for long enough that he tears his eyes away from Clint's slack face and looks up -- into such a patently pointed look that it makes him flush.

"I think we're past all this, don't you? You're still in love with him." She says it like she's stating a fact, and Phil just hasn't got it in him to lie to himself about it any longer.

"That doesn't mean anything. You said he was in love with someone else."

Natasha arches an exasperated eyebrow at him. "Think about what you just said for a moment. I said he was in love with someone else, as in, _not with me_. He's in love with you, idiot. Always has been."

It takes all of Phil's training gained over the years not to lose his balance and land on his ass. "But his mother--"

"--Made a mistake," Natasha says wearily. "And Clint was too young to realise what it meant. You've always felt it, right? The connection between you?"

Phil could try to deny it, but there's just no point. She's right and they both know it. He nods. "Yeah. I have. I thought I was letting teenage hormones get the better of me, though, making me over-emotional and irrational."

The corner of Natasha's mouth lifts a little. "Just because it might feel that way doesn't mean it isn't true. You and Clint, you're--"

Clint's groan cuts off whatever she'd meant to say; both of them startle, and look down to see him trying to blink his eyes open.

"Nat?" he murmurs, before he succeeds in peeling back his eyelids and his eyes lock on Phil's. Clint flinches a little, looking almost--afraid. "Nat, why did you bring me here?" he says, sounding destroyed. It punches Phil in the gut, seeing that look on his face.

Natasha sighs tiredly. "Because the two of you need to face this if there's any chance of stopping the _δαίμονες_ now. You know as well as I that soulmates fighting together are so much more powerful than just people by themselves. We need this right now. It's time to stop running, Clint. Tell him, and acknowledge this, before it's too late."

Phil is dimly aware that his mouth is hanging open, but--what? Soulmates? Is that why--oh, god. All of a sudden, pieces start clicking together to form an entirely different picture. Phil never really believed in soulmates before, but how else is he going to explain the thing that exists between them, the connection, the sheer intensity of the things he feels for Clint? It's a better explanation than any he has come up with so far. 

Clint is staring up at him, this look of panic on his face like he's expecting Phil to flip out, like he's planning damage control in his head already. Like Phil is about to run for the hills -- and while a part of him, the part that wants to take Ripley and _go_ , admittedly wants to do just that, Natasha is right. It's time to stop running for him, too.

He shakes his head. "I don't know what this means," he confesses. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or how that helps at all, but, uh--I did. I did feel that link between us. I still do. So if it's going to help get rid of those things, if it'll keep Ripley and you and Natasha safe, then just tell me what to do and I'll do it." He wants so desperately to believe that _soulmates_ means more, that Clint too feels all these things clawing at Phil's chest to get out; that Phil isn't alone in this yawning pit of yearning that opens up when he so much as looks at Clint -- but he has to be realistic here. Just because he wants it to be true doesn't mean that's how this 'soulmates' thing works. Certainly there has been no indication at all on Clint's part that he reciprocates any of those things.

Clint straightens up slowly, and Phil makes an aborted move to help him before he makes himself put his arm back down. He crosses both arms over his chest instead and looks down at the floor, feeling way too exposed -- like he's suddenly blurted out all those things he keeps locked inside so he can stay sane.

"You feel the connection?" Clint asks, like he needs to verify Phil's stumbling confession. There's something strangely withdrawn in his voice that turns Phil's blood to lead. It's so obvious that whatever this link is, it's not the two-way street Phil hoped it was.

"Yes. I did from the start. I don't see how that changes anything, though, because you clearly didn't."

Clint's fist clenches into the sofa cushion by his hip until his knuckles turn white; a muscle ticks in his jaw, just out of the corner of Phil's eyes.

"You shut your mouth," Clint bites out; it sounds painful, like it, too, has spent too long chained up inside. "I felt it. From the first moment I saw you in the library, pushing up on your toes to put away a book twice as thick as your wrist, I felt it. I made a mistake, not fighting for you. I just didn't know, back then, how much it would hurt, walking away from you. I didn't know what that feeling meant, the need to have you close to me always."

Phil's heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest. He feels hot all over, like his blood is on fire, like he can't get enough air. Does this mean--could it be that Clint feels this, too? 

Phil thinks he might die if he doesn't touch Clint _right now_. His palm tingles sharply, speckled as it is with droplets of Clint's blood from the towel. Clint's looking at him, and Phil can't look away; Clint's eyes are the only thing he sees, the only thing that _exists_ in the world. Clint's fingers let go of the cushion, and he lifts his hand, reaching for Phil's, asking Phil to reach back. 

There isn't even a fraction of a second in which Phil hesitates. He doesn't need to think. There is no possible future in which Phil Coulson does not take Clint Barton's hand and _never lets go_.

Clint lets out a small, hurt sound as their fingers touch and hold fast. He pushes himself off the sofa with his other arm, tugs on their clasped hands as he tilts his head up, wordlessly begging for Phil to close the distance between them. Phil goes with a groan that's pure desperation; Clint's mouth feels like the first sip of fresh water when he's been dying of thirst in the desert, like everything he has ever, _will_ ever need. Just like before, it feels electric, overwhelming -- only _much more_ so now; Phil could swear there's something that travels through their lips, a hum of energy that finds its way inside him, fills the empty space that Clint left behind all those years ago. He whimpers, and tries to worm closer, tries to crawl over Clint and never leave -- but Clint whimpers, too, and Phil knows that sound. That is not the good kind of whimper. He pulls back immediately, free hand stroking over Clint's side, pressing gently against his ribs. Clint hisses, stifling a curse, and Phil bites his lip, cursing himself for not noticing sooner. Only an X-ray could say how many cracked ribs, but judging by how tender Clint's side is, there's at least two.

Phil starts to pull back, but Clint clings to his hand, holding him there. "Don't, it's nothing," he says quickly, a hint of desperation in his voice. Phil shakes his head, but doesn't try to rise again.

"So. Soulmates, huh," he says. The tops of Clint's cheeks flush. It's adorable, and incredibly attractive.

"Are you mad?" Clint asks softly. Phil doesn't hold back the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, yeah, I'm so totally mad that the person I've been in love with for years loves me back," he drawls, and Clint huffs out a laugh before wincing again.

Phil frowns. "You need to go to the hospital."

Clint shakes his head, and looks to Natasha. Phil had plain forgotten she was in the room at all. He wonders if that was a side effect of the need to never stop kissing Clint, ever.

"No time for that," she says briskly. "Now that you've sorted yourselves out, we need to--"

The house shakes. It's not massive enough to register on any kind of seismograph, but it can't be overlooked, not when they're all so highly strung, expecting an attack at any moment. 

"They're here," Clint says grimly, trying to rise again. Phil puts a hand on his shoulder, torn between insisting he stay down and helping him up. 

"What do we do?" Phil asks, looking between the two of them. Natasha's mouth turns down into an equally grim expression as she strides to the curtain and lifts the edge. A second later she jerks back, spitting out something vicious and incomprehensible.

"There's _a lot_ of them, Clint. I don't know that we can take them."

Clint, when Phil turns to him, is staring at Phil with something very close to terror in his eyes. "Phil," he whispers desperately, hand squeezing his hard enough to ache. He turns to Natasha, looking desperate. "What if he ran now? Could he make it?"

Natasha's response is lost in the pounding of blood in Phil's ears. "No," he snaps, glaring at Clint. "I'm not leaving you."

"He wouldn't make it anyway," Natasha says over her shoulder, darting quick looks out of the window. "I can barely see anything through the fog. Looks like the entire nest is here."

"Fuck, _fuck_. Nat, _what do we do_?"

Natasha looks between the two of them, then down to their clasped hands. "Do you believe in this?" she demands, pinning them with her eyes. "Do you acknowledge it?"

"Yes," the two of them reply in perfect unison. Natasha exhales a little, as if in relief, although how exactly this helps them...

"Clint, I think -- in fact, I'm _sure_ of it -- the two of you are the chosen ones. The soulmates destined to end this."

Phil doesn't believe his ears. "What?" he blurts. "Natasha, this is no time for fairy tales." He's angry, and even more worried than angry that she's losing her grasp on reality. 

Then again, an hour ago he would have laughed in the face of anyone spinning him a yarn about soulmates, so... Maybe he should reserve judgement, just for now.

"What is she talking about?" he asks Clint, as calmly as he can make himself. Clint's eyes are narrowed in thought; _he_ doesn't look like he thinks Natasha has snapped. That, more than anything, convinces Phil to suspend disbelief.

Clint looks back at him, searches his face for something. Phil looks back, and tries not to flinch when the house shudders again.

"Your mother, is she still alive?" Clint demands, completely out of the blue. 

Phil blinks, but pushes back the instinctive questions. "No, she passed away two years ago."

"So you're an orphan," Clint presses. Phil is starting to maybe freak out a little.

"I don't understand, why--" he babbles as there's a massive thump from the direction of the front door. 

Clint's fingers squeeze his hand gently, supportively. His thumb runs over Phil's knuckles slowly, like they have all the time in the world, and just like that, Phil's mind sharpens and he manages to breathe again.

"Please, Phil. I swear I'll explain later, but right now you must tell me: are both your parents dead?"

Phil looks into those blue, blue eyes. "Yes," he breathes.

Clint seems to somehow glow with the word, almost as if his skin is emitting light. " _On the cusp of the third millenium two orphans shall meet,_ " he says. His voice has taken on strange harmonics, like an echo from a world not their own. " _Fire stones shall join, and their souls shall know each other. The union of their lives shall vanquish the insatiable mist._ "

Phil stares at him, and honestly cannot think of a single thing to say. His brain runs over and over the words, and a strange kind of sense starts penetrating through the fog that for once is in his head.

Clint looks at him; his eyes are so very pale, the smallest of black deep in the middle. "Phil Coulson, do you acknowledge me as your soulmate?" he asks. The words hold Phil, compel him to answer.

"I do," he says, as firmly as he can.

"I, Clint Barton, acknowledge you, Phil Coulson, as my soulmate." All of a sudden, there's a blade in Clint's left hand. It flashes close to where his right hand holds tight to Phil's, and blood starts flowing from the deep cuts, sliding between their palms. "I join my life to yours."

"I join your life to mine," Phil replies. He has no idea where the words are coming from; it feels like he had always known them, but had forgotten he did. His right hand reaches under his shirt and takes out Idris' pendant, the small opal sun. _Fire stone_ , he thinks to himself, watching as Clint's left hand does the same, removing a fire opal pendant in the shape of a snowflake from around his neck. It looks hauntingly familiar, even though Phil is certain that he has never seen it before. 

They bring the pendants together, and Phil watches with a strange sense of prescience as the sun pendant fits perfectly within the negative space in the centre of the snowflake, seamlessly completing the pattern. 

Clint swallows, and looks up at him. What Phil sees in his eyes sends all his breath out of his lungs. No one has _ever_ looked at him like this, like he is the be-all and end-all, the meaning of life itself.

"Don't let go of my hand," Clint tells him, holding his gaze.

"Never," Phil affirms. It feels like a vow.

Clint squeezes his fingers around Phil's palm, hard, so hard it feels like Phil's bones are grinding together. The blood from the cuts runs faster, pools under their hands and starts dripping to the floor. 

Clint holds Phil's gaze and slides the pendants under the flow. 

The second the blood touches the stones, a blue-tinged shard of light so bright it threatens to blind Phil bursts out from the point of contact, escapes along one of the snowflake arms and goes straight through the wall of the house like it isn't even there. Phil peeks through his eyelashes, eyes squeezed almost shut, and sees the night outside the window flare bright as day. More rays of light start appearing, all along the structure of the pendant, turning it into a miniature sun. One of them passes right through Phil's chest, completely harmless except for the sense of cold that feels like an icicle in his lung. His breath puffs out of his mouth, a plume of freezing mist that joins Clint's above their heads. 

He doesn't know how long the light lasts, whether it was a few seconds or a few hours. All of a sudden, it fades like it has never been, leaving them to blink myopically at the dimness of the room around them. Natasha is a shadow in one corner, straightening out of her crouch and rubbing briskly along her arms. That's when Phil realises that he's so cold he's shaking with it, and so is Clint. Without thinking too much about it, Phil wraps an arm around his back, draws him in against his chest, hands still held tightly between the two of them.

"They're gone," Natasha says from her position at the window. "There's nothing left but a few denser patches of fog that are evaporating by the second."

"It worked," Clint says, voice rich with wonder as he looks up into Phil's eyes and grins fit to burst. The joy can't quite disguise how drained he sounds, however; again, Phil only realises how tired he is himself when he hears it.

Natasha is staring at them, eyes huge in her pale face. "You really are the chosen ones," she breathes. 

Phil has no idea what he's been chosen for, and frankly, at this moment, he doesn't care. What he does care about is that all three of them are cold and exhausted, and if the other two feel anything like him, absolutely _starved_. Any more prophecies can damn well wait.

His fingers feel sore when he finally lets himself unwind them from Clint's. Sore, and slick with still-flowing blood. "Come on," he says, catching Clint's left wrist with his clean hand. "We should bandage these, and I for one can use a sandwich or five."

"Oh my god, I'm famished," Natasha groans, and Clint's stomach rumbles in agreement as Phil helps him up off the sofa. 

The house is still standing, they are safe, and Phil finally has a future he can look forward to, stretching into the distance like the best kind of summer days. Not bad for a night's work.


	4. Epilogue: Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story concludes, and boy lives happily on with boy and their family. :)

Sunspots dance over the water, glinting off the waves and sending molten gold across the skin of the few beachgoers sunning themselves on this remote stretch of coastline that Clint had found in his wonders around the area, ostensibly to research but also to try and come to terms with staggering into Phil's life, _again_ , after so many years of searching. To find Phil not just alive, but grown into the promise of his seventeen-year-old self, confident, assured, settled in, bringing up his _nine-year-old daughter_ by himself -- it had been more than Clint could take, just then. So he'd--not run, not exactly, but--yeah, okay, he'd run. He hadn't been able to look at Phil, in his worn jeans and faded t-shirt, and not wanted to climb him like a damn _tree_. At least, if the intervening years had been good for something, it was that he'd had the chance to accept the possibility of what could be in his future, and learn to live with it. And so, when he had seen the fire opal pendant that Phil wore like it was nothing more than a precious memory, and everything had clicked with an almost frightening precision in his head, Clint had managed not to give in to the urge to run for the hills and never look back.

If he'd known it would be so damn easy to accept Phil as a part of him, to look at Phil and just _know_ that this was the one person Clint's life would be empty without, he might not have been nearly so scared of finally getting here.

Because Phil. God, just looking at him makes something clench tight and sweet in Clint's chest. That small, faint smile of his that always curves his mouth; this way he has of looking at Clint, like Clint is a miracle he doesn't deserve -- sometimes Clint feels faint with how much he hopes he doesn't screw this up. Yeah, okay, being soulmates counts for something; it's more or less a cosmic thumbs-up to their relationship, that they can make this work. It doesn't stop Clint from worrying, though, no matter how stupid Natasha thinks it is. Too much is riding on this -- like _the rest of his life_.

But then he would enter the room, and Phil would look up from whatever he's doing and smile, this soft, sweet thing, fairly shining with happiness to see him, and Clint gives in. He gives in, he's done, even if this comes crumbling down around his ears, he is not going anywhere. He knows a good thing when he sees it, and he just hopes he can keep making it work.

Ripley's laughter draws Clint's attention back to the present, towards the two of them, not too far from where Clint is lying prone with his chin propped on his crossed arms, watching them, his family now. Ripley is in the water, practicing her breaststroke while Phil supervises her form with his hands on his hips, the sun shining on his tanned skin, bringing up a daisy chain of freckles over his shoulders. God but he's _beautiful_. The long line of his back actually makes Clint's mouth water to trail his tongue down Phil's spine, in the way that makes Phil's breath catch and his hips cant into the cradle of Clint's thighs above them, wordlessly begging for more. Phil's hips are a thing of beauty, slim and tilted just so when he stands, dragging the gaze down to his perfectly shaped ass, strong, muscled legs shown off by swimming shorts still damp from his last dip into the ocean. 

Clint is well aware he's shameless about his ogling. He can't help it; it's a rare occasion when he isn't looking at Phil like he's something Clint wants to eat. 

"Clint!" Ripley calls, dragging his eyes to her golden pink face framed by long wet tresses. "Clint, you promised to show me how to get my backstroke to work! Can we do it now? Please?" 

She has the most effective puppy-dog eyes that Clint has ever been subjected to, and he includes himself in that generalisation. He literally cannot refuse her a thing. It's a curse. He wonders if it's a side effect of her being his soulmate's offspring -- but something tells him he'd be just as pathetically eager to spend time with her even if she weren't. She's just that lovely.

So he drags himself upright, stretches his arms over his head, windmills a bit to get his blood flowing, smirking when he feels Phil's covetous gaze on his body. Yeah, it's nice to be appreciated. 

"Incoming," he yells, racing down the stretch of sand that separates their spot on the beach and the tumbling froth of waves coming to shore. He sends splashes flying far and wide as he wades in and dive-bombs Ripley, as much as he can without a trampolene. She still shrieks with delight, so he counts it as mission accomplished.

He spends about half an hour demonstrating, and making sure she's got it, all the while feeling Phil's eyes on him, on the two of them. It occurs to him as he's drifting on his back, letting the waves buoy him as he catches his breath, that he has never felt so content in his life as he does now, in a scene so domestic he would have scoffed at it a few years ago. But this is, quite simply, _perfect_ , the three of them here and now. The only thing missing is Natasha, and she'll be joining them in a little while, no doubt sending Ripley in a tizzy of what he and Phil are starting to suspect is her first crush. 

His life, ladies, gentlemen and other. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Phil's voice comes from closer than Clint expects, but still far enough that he has to speak up. Phil is standing with his shins halfway in the water, making a face like he does when he's overheated by the sun and the water feels just the wrong side of chilly on his skin. Well, Clint has a solution for that, doesn't he?

He swims over to Phil, standing up when the water becomes too shallow only to grab Phil's hand and drag him in waist-deep, while Phil lets out faint whimpering sounds as the water gains more ground over him. 

"It's nothing much," Clint says in reply. "Just enjoying the peace while it lasts."

Phil looks at him searchingly, and Clint sees the realisation steal behind his eyes and color his face. 

"It's not over, is it?" Phil says. He doesn't sound as weary as he had right after the fight, but Clint knows that Phil understands what's out there, knows that there may come a day when they will have to pick up the fight where they left off.

"No. It isn't," he answers honestly. "We've gotten rid of a whole generation of _δαίμονες_ , though. The fire stones tapped into the link between them to take this group out, but. I know there will be more, eventually. It's inevitable that some other version of them will come sniffing around. For now, I plan to enjoy our success, for as long as it lasts. Do you think you can do that, too?"

Phil smiles at him, the smile he saves for Clint and Clint alone. Clint fights not to squirm with happiness. 

"If you can, then I can, too," Phil says, tugging Clint's hand up to his face and kissing the vulnerable underside of Clint's wrist. Clint knows full well what Phil is saying, even if he isn't using words; he can almost feel the ghost of breath teasing his skin, the "Love you" Phil usually presses there when they're alone.

Clint gently tugs his wrist out of Phil's grip, closes his arms around Phil's shoulders, molds their bodies together and kisses him as he dips them both gently sideways under the water, catching Phil's instinctive gasp with his mouth. Phil clutches at him, like he's trying to leach warmth out of his body. Clint never thought he'd enjoy something so simple so much, Phil's arms closing over his back, legs coming to tangle with his, leaving them to bob on the current as they kiss and kiss.

The fight isn't over. It's far from the fight Clint started out being a part of all those years ago, though. This time, he has something that outweighs all that came before: he has a purpose for waging war on those seeking to harm him and his. He is no longer a boy taking an oath to uphold things he doesn't understand. He is a man, taking an oath to protect those that make his life worth living.

With that at his back, Clint dares anyone, or any _thing_ , to come up against him thinking to take that away from him. There is no world in which Clint Barton will let that go without giving it the fight of their lives.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous, heartfelt thanks are due to several people, without whose unbelievable help and support this story would have fizzed out long ago. Firstly, to Foxxcub, who put up with several 100-thread emails and read this thing as it happened, and poked at me when I had almost abandoned the idea until it started happening again. Aliassmith, for being wonderfully enthusiastic at the very start and helping me hammer out the plot. And Pollyrepeat, who didn't even complain when I dumped this whole sorry mess in her lap and begged for her help, but diligently betaed every last word and provided much-needed American-picking and encouragment. Thank you all, so much I haven't the words to express it. ♥


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